


Gold Coin

by AlexFlex



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A glimpse of Dwalin/Nori, Angst, Canon-Typical Fantasy Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtly Love, Cultural Differences, Eventual Romance, M/M, Not a smutfest - nttatwwt, Sexual Tension, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 152,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexFlex/pseuds/AlexFlex
Summary: Legolas never knew the right thing to do.In his forest, messages came on the breeze. The trees told him of approaching spiders. Small creatures told him where to find berries and even the earth beneath his feet told him, ‘this is where you belong’. He always knew what to do in the forest, but in this Mannish place he was at a loss.*****Why did you write this?'Never Trust an ELF!': this scene in the movies got me thinking. Why exactly is Gimli so angry?So, what's the story about?This is a look at Legolas, who Tolkien was somewhat vague about in the book. We all love Orlando, but I've mixed it up and cast differently. This is also a cultural exploration of Dwarves, and a look at Gimli's growth in understanding that history may be more nuanced than what was on public record.Why is it so long?Because it's a worldbuilding meander, looking at some of the bits we weren't shown in the books & films, including the bromances and slash. We explore the characters and events in both The Hobbit & Lord of the Rings, with back-stories, and rummaging in heads.I hope you enjoy it.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 624
Kudos: 377
Collections: The Two Thousand Fics on AO3 Gigolas Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to InfinitysWraith for beta assistance on the opening chapters and to Aylwyyn228 for brainstorming & beta.

He never knew the right thing to do.

In his forest, messages came on the breeze. The trees told him of approaching spiders. Small creatures told him where to find berries and even the earth beneath his feet told him, ‘this is where you belong’. He always knew what to do in the forest, but in this Mannish place he was at a loss.

The smoke stung Legolas’ eyes and his nose was filled with the rancid, sour smells of Men who had been toiling, and who seemed to view bathing or changing soiled clothing as girlish sentimentality. All around were the strange, drawn out sounds of Westron, further disorientating him. He saw the Man who must be the innkeeper spit on a cloth before wiping a tankard and his stomach roiled. The singing all around him was jolly. Ale spilled as they saluted their comrades and laughed as if all was well. Did these Men not feel the Shadow which all around drew closer? The very same Shadow had emboldened the Spiders, to the extent that they were no longer a mere irritant. Now, not only the unlucky were bitten, but even seasoned warriors were falling victim to coordinated attacks.

A female Man approached him. “Sit here, duckie,” she said and gestured to a table in the corner. He could never pinpoint their ages, but this one had grey streaking through her black hair. He could tell that the roses in her cheeks were smeared on from a paste, and not from the warmth of the hearth or high spirits, and the pale smoothness of her skin had been artfully constructed. He could see beneath, the fine network of lines and wrinkles detailing the joys and sorrows she had endured in her short years. She would not have been born the last time he had been in Dale, but the inn was the same. Tucked away in this gloomy recess, Legolas watched as the people of Dale gathered for a crumb of companionship, of merriment; gathered to forget for a few hours until they trudged back to their homes and began their toils anew on the morrow.

This time he had brought gold. Last time had been embarrassing. In exchange for his ale, he had given the server a beautiful leaf he had found on the ground earlier that same day. One could still see the full skeleton of the leaf and it looked like fine lace with a gossamer overlay. It truly was a special leaf! His brother had heard the commotion and come down. Lastedir settled the bill with the innkeeper, who kept apologising, saying the server was new. How was he to have known they wanted only _coin_ in exchange! He had rarely had to use coin in exchange for anything before and his brother should have warned him; Legolas had been doing him a favour in accompanying him!

Today, Legolas returned to the same inn and was glad that no-one who remembered that incident would still be around. He could have visited somewhere completely new, but he was somewhat accustomed to the Boar’s Head; he knew now what to do in order to be given ale, and he felt too anxious to try and navigate a totally unfamiliar establishment. This time, he carefully set a gold coin he had brought with him onto the roughly hewn table. The crude depiction on the face of the coin was of some Mannish king who had probably taken his last breath before Dale had been more than just a crude collection of shacks. Perhaps that is why the female Man furrowed her brow, bit the coin, then gave him a strange look. “I’m not for upstairs, you know. I just brings the food and drink.”

Legolas knew all about “Upstairs.” He knew that some Men exchanged coin for the pleasures of the body. That was not what he meant, and he hastened to say so. “Just a Mannish ale,” he added.

With another strange look, she walked away with the coin in hand, looking back at him over her shoulder as she exchanged words with the innkeeper. He did not know how much time had passed before she returned. It was difficult to tell the passage of time without the forest around to guide him. She returned with a foaming tankard, then from a leather pouch in her other hand she poured a pile of coin onto the table. Briefly she looked around and then tucked the pouch down the front of her dress, heaving up her bosom in the process. From the pile she picked up one of the small copper coins and held it up. “One of these, for an ale”.

Another Man, one he had not seen before, emerged from the kitchens with a bowl. Boiled potatoes swam in a thin, oily gravy, and greyish lumps of meat bobbed to the surface, then sank back down, perhaps in shame. He recognised root vegetables in the orange shapes joining in that oily dance, navigating their way around a wooden spoon. A half loaf of bread was placed on the table, next to the pile of coins, some of which were already sliding onto the floor.

For over a hundred years now, the game caught in the forest had become bitter and tainted and thus Legolas rarely ate meat. When he did eat meat, he normally only did so in order to avoid offending his hosts, but he felt no compunction at being impolite here. He pushed the unappetising offering away from him and set the ale before him. As he drank, he surreptitiously looked around the room and could see that there were many curious glances cast in his direction. He felt uneasy and wondered why they were staring. The Elves of Mirkwood were often seen in Dale, so there should not have been curiosity at the sight of an Elf.

It was true that all but a handful of the inhabitants of Dale would have not yet been born when the Elves had last passed through en masse, and the Battle of Five Armies was now a thing of history to them. To them it was not a searing memory of blood and oozing and cries of pain. Not an event where they had felt the agony of loss, seeing playmates and patrolmates lying still on the field of battle, with eyes open not in reverie, but unseeing, lifeless. It was now merely information for schoolchildren to learn.

But these Men, even though they were surrounded by loss and decay, seemed to be able to snatch happiness from the air, to take what pleasure might be found in their fleeting years.

Wherever there was a settlement of Men there was an ‘Upstairs’. Sometimes it would be a small shack at the edge of a town, sometimes a curtained alcove in a tavern. When wanderers decided to set down roots, one of the first things to be established would be a smithy. Nails would be needed for the building of cabins, the shoeing of horses and the heat of the forge would be a welcome draw, and this helped forge it into the impromptu gathering place a smithy always was. Then would appear a crone who attempted to use herbs to heal and who claimed also to read omens. A few houses would be built, fields would be tilled, animals penned and a settlement would grow. But before any of those things there would be an ‘Upstairs.’

Even in the days of Doriath, when the Men of the Haladin had been allowed to live in Brethil, Oropher had sent Elves out in this manner to gather information. Long before Legolas’ eldest brother Opherion had been born, Thranduil himself had declared he himself would no longer participate in such reconnaissance. When they had fled to the Greenwood, now Mirkwood, Thranduil had continued the practice. Legolas did not know what the Noldor did, but probably every other Elf in the forest had spent time Upstairs in Dale.

Thranduil said speaking with the pleasure workers was a way of finding information not twisted by diplomatic niceties, or filtered by courtiers and official channels. Thranduil would have a truer picture of how Dale fared from hearing how certain grain was now difficult to find, and from hearing how many traders from the East were setting up permanent stalls. This information was far superior to the tidy diplomatic scrolls he received periodically. If Elves were to go Upstairs and to ask overtly about munitions, siege strategy or food reserves it would mean an end to the scheme. Word would find its way back to those in power and Elves would no longer be permitted to take such liberties. But to ask about their day, and to learn that their brother, who works in weapons manufacturing is out of work due to lack of ore, provided him with almost the same information, but in a more roundabout and less objectionable way.

Thranduil would send Elves several times a year. Each Elf was only expected to visit once every few years, a rotation having been established, but even so, few Elves lasted longer than a hundred years of making visits ‘Upstairs’. They would stay to hear news of their original contacts crumbling into dust. Then a sense of loyalty would keep them around to watch the children grow, but inevitably, they would be too devastated to remain and watch the grandchildren be ravaged by time and turn into ash.

His brother had come here, to this inn every five years or so, visiting for several consecutive days. He would give a coin to one of the female Men and be led ‘Upstairs’; he would sit with them and just talk, sometimes for hours. He would first hand to them the coin, then just ask them about their day-to-day lives, what they spent their time doing, what they knew of trade, what rumours they had heard. At first, they would be confused. Then Lastedir would explain. “I would take no pleasure not freely given. You may keep the coin, and all I ask is for your company and conversation.” As they spent more time together over the years, some Elves would permit their contact to comb their hair, as a sign of friendship. It was probably from this practice that the ‘common knowledge’ was founded that ‘Elves don’t fuck, only comb each other’s hair.’

Legolas was glad when his father had finally permitted him to visit Dale with Lastedir. His father had sent his brother to gather information and permitted Legolas to accompany him to Dale, even though Legolas himself was deemed to be ‘too young’ to start the visits Upstairs. Even though he was long past his majority, they all still saw him as ‘the elfling’, ‘ada's little acorn’. Legolas had been one of the last elflings to have been born in the forest. The deepening shadow had caused couples to be unable to find the joy needed to bring forth new life. 

So, he had become the darling of the entire forest. When there was a new honeycomb found, Legolas would always have a piece. When learning his weapons, his drills had been patiently explained, not shouted. When on patrol, someone would always pack a bag of supplies for him, his quiver would always be full and though he only realised later, he was never on the detail to clean up. And he had never been hit on the back of the head, the way he had been told Galion had often smacked his brothers in the past. When he had emerged, sticky, from one of the winter pantries, they had just clucked at him and given an indulgent smile.

Everyone clung to this picture of him as the baby even though by the time he had come of age, he had endured more than either of his brothers had by the same age. He had been there when his mother was bitten and had been wrenched from her arms as she departed to sail West, having failed to heal. He had seen the darkening of the forest, of some trees growing cold and hard and he had felt that wrongness. Even as he was growing up, he recognised the Shadow which should not have been there. He had never played freely on the forest floor as his brothers had, he had learned to be suspicious of every shadow. He could nock and draw an arrow faster than any other, as he had been doing it from childhood, rather than beginning training when of age as the others had.

Perhaps it was this shadowed childhood which made everyone want to overcompensate and try and give him the joy they felt had been unfairly denied him with the coming of the Shadow. 

Perhaps they feared that a child growing under this Shadow would be tainted, twisted in some Orcish way, and were all fighting against that possibility by showering him with love and kindness.

When he had first visited Dale with his brother, Lastedir, Legolas would wander around the market, sometimes with one of Thranduil’s courtiers on hand to keep him company while Lastedir was Upstairs. After little over a hundred years, Lastedir had said he could no longer do it, that he could no longer visit ‘Upstairs’. All of the ones with whom he had first spoken had died, now their grandchildren were dying and Lastedir had said he could not be around mortals in this way. He refused to become close to them only to watch them wither like leaves on a tree.

So, today Legolas had come to Dale alone. He had not bothered to ask anyone to accompany him. They would have first sought permission from his father, and Legolas knew Thranduil would not have allowed his departure. Thranduil wanted Legolas always to remain close, even more so now, with the growing strength of the Shadow. 

Legolas needed to get away from the forest and away from Thranduil’s ever tightening restrictions. He borrowed a horse and left a message with a retainer. He had said “I am well and will return soon.” Once he returned, Legolas would explain to his father that the forest was pressing down on him and he needed to be under clear skies to just be able to breathe for a few hours. 

Years ago he once received a small wooden chest full of coins and thought it a strange gift. But Legolas now carried a handful of its contents as he set off.

Doubt assailed him when he approached Dale; he had never done this alone. He had spent a night sheltered in a depression of earth, the horse hidden by the bushes. When morning came, he dug up some roots to eat and continued to ride gently towards Dale.

Since he had left so late in the day, he would have to stay in this Mannish place overnight. It was foolish to risk encountering Orcs or a Spider in the dark while travelling alone. He could have called at the palace and King Brand would have welcomed him as an honoured guest. But Legolas did not want to confirm the impression that he could do nothing without other people facilitating his attempts at independence.

He caught the attention of the server. “A room please.”

“Certainly, your highness.”

He wondered how they had known his identity. His features were not dissimilar to his father’s, but where Thranduil’s hair was mithril, his was as black as deep waters at night, and his Silvan mother had given him her colouring. He was earth, and bronze, and sunlight, rather than Thranduil’s moonlight and silver and ice.

The old Man who had brought out his so-called stew may have been here on his last visit. Legolas would have looked the same to the Man, but Legolas himself had never been close enough to an individual Man to have learnt how to track the changes. Perhaps this bent-over, white haired Man had been a strapping youth with brown hair when he was last here, how could he tell?

“Would you like to choose who we will send up to you? Two women are working tonight.”

“No!” It was one thing to leave the forest without telling anyone, but to actively disobey the edict against Legolas being involved in gathering information would be a step too far.

“A lad, then?”

On his ride here, when it had become clear he would have to spend the night in Dale, he had decided that he would embrace the situation wholeheartedly. He could, of course, sit in reverie within the gates of Dale. No Orcs would attack, and the only danger would be a disconcerted Man stumbling upon him in the dark. Nevertheless, he wanted to have an authentic Mannish experience.

“No, just an ordinary room. With no-one in it. For sleeping. With eyes closed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback helps me know if you are enjoying the story, so please do let me know what you think <3
> 
> Thank you everyone for taking the time to read it!! <3
> 
> Have a look at the lovely cover art by @dhazellouise  
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/cf/93/91/cf9391ee0f61f5fe0f4e9477fce2df60.gif
> 
> In Telemachus’ Rising Verse series Elves in intimate relationships comb each others’ hair and no more, with specific exceptions.
> 
> Lastedir – Sindarin for ‘one who listens’. I liked the idea of brothers with names starting with an L and both with the Las sound.
> 
> ‘Too young’. In this story the idea is that Elves come of age at the age of one hundred. Legolas is somewhere between three and five hundred in this story. 
> 
> I’m not sure whether it is canon but Dwarves come of age at seventy, Gimli was sixty-five in the events of The Hobbit. At the beginning of the Fellowship it has been roughly eighty years since Erebor had been reclaimed so he is around 145.
> 
> Gandalf = Mithrandir to the Elves = Tharkûn to the Dwarves and is a Maiar i.e. a type of angel/wizard.
> 
> While we’re at it, Aragorn is his ‘public’ name; he is Strider to the hobbits; Estel to the Elves of Rivendell and Lothlorien.
> 
> I have read several stories where Legolas’ mother was bitten and so had to sail, but I’m thinking specifically of the Finding a Voice series by Roselightfairy.
> 
> If you've got this far and you have the capacity for beta reading, please give me a shout <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known: Aylwyyn228 is a magnificent beast of a beta. Thank you!

It had been a good day. His apprentice had performed so well. All of the weapon forms were excellent. She had stilled her shaking hands well enough to throw her axes with precision and most of all, she had overcome her shyness in order to have her formal appraisal. It had come a few years late, as facing the panel of assessors had been too much for her. 

After several years of her helping him with his other apprentices, keeping his workshop tidy and playing the part of general assistant, he had insisted that Fela needed to progress. He had convinced Dwalin to permit him to clear the practice hall of spectators, and left only himself, Dwalin and the rest of the panel of assessors.

In seeing Fela’s lack of confidence in herself, Gimli had been reminded of Ori. Ori, so nervous and unsure of himself, even after having been part of the successful reclamation of Erebor. Always, Ori had found excuses to put himself down; ‘Oh, I was hardly part of the Company, really. I was there more as a scribe, than anything. I barely did anything. In the skirmishes and in the battle I just reacted on instinct, I only did what anyone else would have done.’ In part, Ori spoke thus to mollify Gimli’s bruised ego, as it was still sore at having been forbidden to join the Company. But Gimli knew that a part of Ori had really believed his contribution had been minimal.

Perhaps if Ori had felt more sure of himself he would not have felt the need to prove himself by joining the movement to reclaim Moria. Perhaps Ori would not have discounted the opinion of someone who was not a close friend. Perhaps if there had been someone older, someone to reassure him, things would have been different. Perhaps an outside opinion on the worth of his contribution would not have been discounted as ‘rose-tinted’. If the opinion had come from beyond the vantage-point of family, perhaps then Ori would have had more confidence. Perhaps then Ori would not have felt the need to demonstrate his worth. Perhaps Ori would not have departed into this long silence.

Perhaps.

Perhaps Gimli could be that someone to Fela. That someone to build her up.

Dwalin had argued, “if she is too nervous to be watched, then surely she can’t be a warrior!” But Gimli had explained it was just the artificial nature of the situation which caused her anxiety. She had accompanied Orc-hunting parties and distinguished herself. Her technical skill was impeccable, and any Orcs coming her way would not be asking her; 'tell us a little something about yourself'. She had passed the assessment with flying colours and was now a journeyman warrior.

When Dwalin had said “she’s a credit to your teaching,” Gimli had beamed, and wriggled in his seat with pride like a little dwarrowling at the praise, before coughing and looking away embarrassed as a snort of laughter came from his own Master. Now that he had successfully trained ten apprentices of his own, he was permitted to sit on the assessment panel himself. Fela would be having a small celebration with only her parents and close friends. Fela had invited him, but he knew she would feel awkward at the mixing of her ‘work-life’ which he represented, and her private life, so when Dwalin told him to get ready to accompany him to Dale, Gimli had not hesitated.

Gimli had always known Dwalin. He and Balin were his father’s first cousins and had spent their earliest years together in the splendour of Erebor. Then they had watched Gimli grow up as a refugee in Ered Luin. Nori, however, had been an unknown quantity for a long time. His friend Ori’s elusive brother, Nori was spoken of by Ori in awed tones but never introduced to Gimli. 

Gimli and his mother were with the first caravan to reach Erebor reclaimed. The first scandal to entertain the new arrivals had been the news of the union between Dwalin, a respected Watchman, from the line of Durin and Nori, a notorious thief. The cloak of respectability granted by being members of the Company was thin. People wondered at how a guard and a thief could have found common ground, but they had. 

The Company found themselves spending much time together in Erebor. On occasion even Tharkûn would visit Erebor, making sure to join them outside the official functions. He would amuse Bombur’s young children by pretending to find coal behind their ears, and entertain them tall with tales. The unique experiences they had shared and the losses they had endured had forged a bond between them all. “After going through all that, how can we not be family?” Glóin had growled.

Even their newfound wealth placed a distance between the Company and the ordinary residents of Erebor - their friends, relations and neighbours. They created a small bubble of family, and once the rest of their families arrived from Ered Luin the households of the remaining Company members flowed freely together. Only Bombur’s children had been instructed by their grandmother “to stay away from the thief, Lord or no.” Gimli, however, had stuck to Nori and Dwalin like moss to a stone and had learned much from his adopted ‘Uncles’ who had built him up and taught him everything they felt a Dwarf should know; honour, courage, duty - and also cunning, stealth and astuteness.

Nori’s whistle at the door had Gimli ready to leave in minutes and that evening, the journey to Dale had been full of banter and gentle teasing. Gimli had elected to walk alongside Dwalin and Nori’s ponies. The beasts were unpredictable and would, like as not, throw him at the smallest provocation; he preferred his own two feet. Dwalin and Nori had turned into the palace gates to be pampered with rose water and soft cushions, before delivering the message from King Dáin. Gimli had been to the palace enough times and today he did not feel like following all the rigmarole necessary to avoid offence. He made his way to the inn and found an unoccupied corner. He was the only Dwarf present today, but as he entered, he had passed two Blacklock dwarves from the South. 

Gimli had seen they still bore the signs of recent, long travel. More and more peoples from the South were arriving in Dale, with whispers of a darkness covering that land. It could have something to do with the Black Rider Nori and Dwalin had come to discuss with King Bain. Nori collected nuggets of information the way some dwarflings collected pretty stones. Using his diplomatic skills, Gimli had persuaded the Blacklocks to pass by the palace and speak with Nori and share any news from the South. Nori could then decide if there was anything useful in it.

Suddenly, Gimli felt the atmosphere in the tavern become more alert, and he looked up from the ale he had been nursing. As soon as he came in, the Elf caught his attention. He did not have to have seen many Elves to know that this was one of high status. Apart from anything else, that knife looked like it was made of fucking Mithril. In appearance, a Man could probably not distinguish it from silver by sight, but even they had the common sense to know a weapon forged in silver could offer no protection, and the thing gleamed too much to be polished steel. The large white gem in his hair clip was cut to reflect the light and grabbed the attention of everyone around. His bow was simple, and his attire was of simple, woodland colours, greens and browns, but it was clear that the linen was of finely spun thread and it was embroidered in gold. The leatherwork on his boots, quiver and the bracers on the slim arms were by a master embosser and had taken hours and hours of precision work.

Gimli could probably snap this Elf in half. He seemed even more - _something_ \- than the others he had seen. More ‘floaty’? Agh, why was he thinking of ways to describe how this Elf seemed to not be fully present in the inn? As if he were merely gracing everyone with his presence and with a blink he would be gone.

The cloth of his tunic was of a fine weave, and Gimli could imagine how smooth it would be, with his hand gliding over the narrow chest, and how he would be able to feel the nipple rising to attention. _Fuck’s sake Gimli. You know Elves don’t fuck_ . He had always had a curiosity in bed, but even if Elves _did_ fuck, he knew Glóin would probably do himself an injury if he found out Gimli had tumbled one of his former jailers.

As far as Glóin was concerned, every single Elf had been complicit in imprisoning him. By some logic, that extended even to the ones from other places, far from Mirkwood. Simply put, any Elf, given the opportunity, would have imprisoned him, and would do so again, given half a chance. It was not as if Glóin often saw Elves. They never came into Erebor and Glóin spent most of his time Under the Mountain. His opinion of them had remained static for eighty years.

Gimli slowed his breathing and looked away from the Elf’s chest and instead looked at his face. He was almost taken aback by the laughing, guileless quality it held. Glóin had told him they were always sneering and full of contempt for what they called ‘Naugrim _’_ ; _Stunted Ones_. They thought themselves above all mortals and even further above Dwarves. But this Elf was not sneering. What he had was a tiny smile playing on his lips as he walked in, almost as if he were proud of walking through the door. Nori had taught him to sit still and to observe, so over the rim of his ale, Gimli drank and watched.

This Elf’s dark lashes framed his dark eyes, as he looked around. The Elf stared rudely at the people around him and made no move to hide his pouch of coin, tied to his leather belt.

Soon after they had arrived in Erebor reclaimed, Nori had taught Gimli how to hide a thin, sharp knife up his sleeve and how to flick it out surreptitiously. With the stiletto point hidden on the inside of his hand, Nori had shown him how to cut a purse string, or to split it down the side without being noticed by the owner of the purse. His mother had been furious, even when Nori explained they only did it to Ori, Dwalin, Bifur and Bofur, who were all in on the game. This Elf would have been too easy. When the Elf produced a gold coin from the pouch, conversation in the room stopped. The large coin was solid gold, any Dwarf worth his beard could tell that from this distance. The coin, nay, _disc_ was worth more than any of these Men could amass in a lifetime of dirty labour. Most, when they died, left a bed, some clothes, maybe a book or a sword, a few copper coins and memories. Haughtily, the Elf laid the fortune on the table.

Gimli could see the serving woman calculating. She could tell, just as well as Gimli could, that this Elf came from wealth and therefore the coin was probably real, but she still needed to check. He saw the change she brought back; even though it formed a pile, was far less than the Elf should have received. Even so, it still made the Elf a target for shadier individuals.

Gimli did not know what force propelled him over to the Elf’s table. Perhaps it was the sight of the food congealing and going to waste. Growing up he had often gone hungry, even though he would pretend that he was not, as he had seen his parents struggling to make the food go as far as possible. His parents often said they had eaten just before he came in, though by the time he was old enough to braid his own hair, he recognised it for the pride-salvaging lie of kindness that it was. He would eat gratefully, and not complain, even when the Men had sold them spoiled food, which they would have to try and improve with spices. Now, in Erebor, they no longer experienced want, but he could not in good conscience see food going to waste. In all likelihood, it would be poured back into the stew pot and form part of the next day’s offering, but the impulse not to risk it being thrown away was strong in Gimli.

The Elf was moving to stand up and Gimli could see one or two cut-purses, and at least one cutthroat watching him from the other side of the room. Nori had taught him to identify them if not by face, then by the signs of their profession. Quick fingers and nervous looks, nondescript clothing and never being seated facing away from a door. Gimli was rarely wrong in identifying those who routinely indulged in criminal behaviour and in violence. Gimli had seen them noting the routes of escape, just as he had been trained to. He had seen them also noting the wealth this Elf casually displayed.

It now even looked as if this Elf had forgotten about the pile of coin, and he could envision the Elf being mobbed and trampled if he walked away from that table without securing his purse and clearing away the money on the table. Aside from the professionals, the inrush of people would not be malicious, just opportunistic, but all the same, this Elf would be hurt. Perhaps it was the assessment he had attended earlier that day. Listening to Fela recite the warriors' code had stirred his heart. _The axe was for use in protecting the weak, for the service of the King and of Dwarrowdom, for enacting righteous judgement. Joy was not to be taken in destruction wrought but in the restoration of justice._ With that fresh in his heart, he could not just sit back and watch this Elf come to harm.

Gimli climbed onto the chair opposite the Elf, who started as Gimli seated himself. Gimli glared at those watching, and quick as a glint of sunlight on opal, he stabbed his knife into the table. The figures melted back into their seats, giving up on their mark as having been claimed first. “So, are you going to eat that, lad or can I help myself?” he said, already pulling the bowl towards him.

The Elf appeared to have been rendered speechless, and sank back into his seat. Gimli ate with gusto, eating quickly in the way of one who has been trained not to dawdle, lest another swipe something from his plate. He wiped his beard with his hand, and tore chunks of the bread to dip into the bowl. He had brought his ale to the table with him, so washed down the last of the bread and finished with a long belch of satisfaction. The Elf had been watching him as if he had never seen a Dwarf before. It seemed that both their faces were torn between amusement and being offended.

The Elf seemed to be especially fascinated with his beard, so Gimli stroked it then raised an eyebrow. The Elf sputtered in embarrassment, and looked away, still seemingly unsure about how to navigate this situation.

As Gimli finished eating, the server brought a key with the rune ‘3’ carved onto the wooden fob. Gimli firmly pushed a few of the coins on the table towards the server and she graced him with a sour look, but retreated.

“You may keep the rest of the change from earlier,” he said to her in a quiet voice as she walked away. Again, she scowled back at him, but this time with a hint of fear in her eyes. Gimli knew she would now be indebted to him. The Elf obviously could not care less about the coin, and from the glimpse he had caught of what remained in his pouch, the Elf could possibly buy the inn many times over. But this wench did not want to risk bringing trouble down on her own head, regardless of whether it came from the Elves, from the proprietor or from this Dwarf. 

Gimli took his own battered-looking decoy pouch, gathered up the coin on the table and then tied it closed. He handed it to the Elf. “Hide the other pouch when you are alone, and use only _this_ pouch when you are in public.” The Elf took it but still said nothing to him. In other circumstances Gimli would have taken offence at the silence, but he knew better than to expect manners from an Elf.

It would be safer overall for the Elf to be away from the main hall, but the isolation would bring its own risks. Gimli would accompany him to his room; it would be a waste of effort for Gimli to have saved the Elf from cutpurses only for the silly creature to then be accosted in a shadowy corridor.

His plans to join with Dwalin and Nori later were put aside - he would keep an eye on things here for a bit. They would not worry about him in Dale, and when he had an opportunity, he would send a messenger boy to the palace to let them know where he was.

“You were going to your room, Elf, is that not so? I will walk with ye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that with Fela and Ori's shyness and lack of confidence, I don't think someone being shy/an introvert/having anxiety automatically = lack of confidence. It's just the way it played out for those two.
> 
> Do you really like it? Is it is it wicked?
> 
> I love hearing from you! Thanks for the feedback <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to InfinitysWraith for constructive feedback and to my lovely beta Aylwyyn228.

There was no pause as the Dwarf shovelled down the unenticing fare. The rate of his eating was cause for concern, and Legolas refrained from speaking to him as he did not want to cause this Dwarf to choke. 

Was this the ‘lad’ they had offered to send up with him? He had said he wanted no one. And why would they send a Dwarf?

Legolas had some limited experience of Dwarves. Without his father’s knowledge he had helped the prisoners to escape decades ago, and in the days leading up to the escape, he had observed one of them. Legolas was not permitted to enter the dungeons, and even his sweetest smile could not be weaponised to allow the guards to grant him entry against his father’s explicit orders. There was, however, one who had been kept in the tower, separately from the others. 

Legolas had climbed the creepers outside the window and watched him. He had had a short beard and mournful eyes. He had always been told Naugrim were ugly, but this one had fascinated him. He looked _strong_. His eyes were full of pain and sorrow, but also of hope. Legolas had felt that keeping such a one caged, was as cruel as caging little birds in the manner of Men.

On his first visit to Dale, furious, he had released all the caged song birds and fowl for sale in the market. His eldest brother had given the merchants coin to compensate them. When his father had been told, he had been annoyed at the disruption Legolas had caused, and from that day, Legolas had not ever been allowed to visit Dale alone. Despite the consequences he had not regretted his actions for a moment, and the memory of that day had subsequently guided the course of his actions when it came to freeing the Dwarves.

Legolas had only managed to watch the Dwarf in the tower for two days. On the second, the Dwarf had caught his eye as he looked through the small window, but neither of them had said anything to the other. The next morning, as he made his way out of the palace, and as he prepared to scale the wall again, Thranduil was there to meet him, already standing at the tower’s base. This time there was no fond indulgence in his gaze and he had ordered him to stay away from the Dwarves. At the foot of the tower a guard had been placed, and Legolas did not want to force him to lie and say Legolas had _not_ been climbing up to take a look at the Dwarf, so he abandoned the attempt.

He had later been unsurprised to learn that the Dwarf in the tower had been a king. Legolas had privately mourned when he heard he had been killed in the slaughter that came to be known as the Battle of Five Armies. Now, here was another chance to observe a Dwarf and this one was completely different. They were both short, and had beards, and when pressed, he would own they shared a certain nobility of bearing, but the difference was in the eyes.

This one’s eyes were full of fun and of joy. It seemed as if even if he were not actively planning anything, his eyes would carry a mischievous glint. Even when he stabbed a knife into the table, because of those eyes, Legolas was not afraid. Was it perhaps a Dwarvish custom? This Dwarf’s eyes were laughing at him as he ate his stew. 

Legolas was horrified at the crumbs getting caught up in the beard, but the Dwarf just seemed to smile at Legolas under all that hair and brush them away. The beard was the same fiery shade as his hair. As he stared at it, he could see the beard was not a uniform colour. It was an autumn riot. There were browns and reds, copper strands, some grey even, and they tangled together in a thick mass with some of the hair sectioned into braids. His lips were soft and pink under the beard, and the Dwarf licked them every now and then as he ate. Legolas felt a heat pooling in his groin, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Why was he having such a reaction? He could not do anything about it, so he would have to ignore it and soon it would go away.

He had almost forgotten the pile of coin when he had made to walk away from the table, and now for some reason the Dwarf had given him a new pouch. He talked to the server about ‘changing’ which he did not understand either. In order to avoid causing offence, Legolas took the scruffy pouch wordlessly and tied it next to the one already on his belt, and it seemed the Dwarf groaned at that. He was not sure what to do next. He had made it clear to the tavern that he did not want a pleasure worker to join him. He did not know why this Dwarf had offered to walk with him. He knew his father did not like Dwarves, but this one had done him no wrong personally, and he would not be rude without cause.

He followed the Dwarf upstairs. He had never ventured this deeply into the building before, and again he felt uncertain and unmoored. He watched the Dwarf as he walked ahead. He was broad and though he was short, nothing seemed wrong with that. He was exactly as he should be, and he moved like a forest creature, like one who was wholly assured that he was in full command of his own body.

The Dwarf opened the door to the room marked with a ‘3’ and again he stabbed his knife into wood, but Legolas did not remark on the custom, and those eyes assured him he was not in any danger from this Dwarf. Now they stood self-consciously together by the threshold after the Dwarf shut the door. The Dwarf coughed awkwardly and looked around the room. 

Suddenly, Legolas recognised that he probably would not have such an opportunity again.

Legolas placed his weapons on the floor beside him, then moved to sit on the bed. That way they would be of a height. Simmering curiosity had begun eighty years ago at his first sight of one. What had been then only a glimmer of an inclination was now a curiosity he needed to indulge; he wanted to feel what a beard would be like in his hands. He steeled himself to ask, hesitant and stammering. “May I touch your beard?”

At his request the Dwarf let out a bark of laughter but acquiesced with a nod of his head.

He spoke, saying. “That’s very forward of you, Master Elf, but seeing where we are, hardly inappropriate.”

Legolas did not understand his words, but was too distracted to question him as he took in the sight of the Dwarf slowly stalking towards him. When he was before Legolas he stood and jutted out his chin.

Legolas suddenly felt nervous and picked at the fastening of his vambrace. What if there were still crumbs and debris in it from previous meals - would he be repulsed? Should he avoid touching the braids? Should he just ask the Dwarf to leave? Legolas’ breath hitched and he made as if to speak, then he checked himself. All the while, the Dwarf remained as still as one of the statues carved into the side of Erebor.

Legolas breathed out slowly through his mouth then reached out his hand into the awful great beard. 

“Ai!” came Legolas’ tiny noise of surprise. 

His fingers slid and glided through the soft strands. He stroked down again. It was like the pelt of one of his woodland animals. If he went against the grain, he could feel it as spiky, and rough, but with the grain, the motion was almost mesmerising. Again, and again he stroked. He met the Dwarf’s eyes and with the other hand he felt compelled to reach out and touch his hair. “Please?”

The Dwarf nodded. 

Legolas’ pulse was now racing.

The Dwarf groaned and the sound sent a shudder through him. It travelled directly to some dark part of him. Legolas used both hands to cup the Dwarf’s face. He was handsome. The Dwarf’s features were not what he was used to; they were robust, there was nothing delicate about him. The pleasure in his face was not hidden and it was clear this Dwarf inhabited every moment. The Dwarf’s mouth had fallen open and his eyes were closed and now a small moan escaped from his mouth. Legolas’ fingers burrowed inwards, through the beard, and felt he the soft skin of his neck underneath and caressed.

“Fuck,” cursed the Dwarf under his breath.

Legolas quickly drew his hands away and placed them on the bed to either side of him. Surely, he could not have been hurting him; he had been so careful to be gentle, but he did not know anything about how sensitive Dwarves might be. If one gave a butterfly the same handling as one gave an elk, the butterfly would be destroyed.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Nay, Elf. Do it again.”

Legolas brought his hands back and this time looked into the Dwarf’s eyes as he stroked to be sure he was not in pain, but the Dwarf looked as if he were somewhere far away and his mouth fell open under the beard.

Legolas stroked, revelling in its softness. The Dwarf’s small sounds of pleasure, and puffed breaths were somehow going directly to his groin. Again, he felt the stirring. Without thought, Legolas drew one hand out of the beard and pressed against himself. 

The Dwarf moaned again. 

Legolas could feel his own heart beating harder still and he could feel the heat building up below, and burning his cheeks.

Once again, he decided to take this opportunity. Mayhap he would never leave the forest again after this visit. Mayhap the Shadow would consume them all. Legolas would grasp at this spark of life while he could.

He had never been kissed. Growing up, there had been only a few young Elves of a similar age. They had quickly paired off or were simply not looking for physical companionship.

Legolas also was aware enough to recognise that being the apple of Thranduil’s eye was not conducive to finding a partner in love-play with others of a similar age to him. They all feared the fallout if things went wrong, as they so often did in adventures of this kind. And even if they themselves felt an interest and decided to risk it, their own parents warned them away.

Among the older Elves he was still ‘baby’ and ‘little leaf’. Even after he was of age no one would touch him in that way. Once, he had found an elleth who was always smiling at him, taking walks with him through the trees, and was always somehow on the same patrol as him. When they had found themselves alone, he had embraced her and tried to kiss her. She had put her fingers on his lips and looked at him with pity. “Oh, Legolas! I see you as a little brother!” Burning with mortification he had fled into the forest, unarmed, and a search party had been sent to find him, compounding his humiliation.

That was the problem, it was not just that he was a prince. He was everyone’s baby. They all saw him as ‘little leaf’, even though now he could gut an Orc in one smooth motion.

‘Find someone from outside of the forest’ would be a reasonable suggestion, but it was not that simple.

His father was bitter that the other Elven kingdoms were protected by rings of power but his Greenwood had not been. Thranduil had had to watch the steady decline of his Woodland Realm, the incursions of spiders, and bear the loss of his wife. All the while, he heard travellers speak of the unchanging beauty of Lothlorien and of the splendour of the ‘Last Homely House’. After the shadow was firmly in place, Thranduil's froideur had made Mirkwood even more unwelcome to visitors, and only Mithrandir still braved the gloom of the forest and the chilly reception within the palace. Seeing that there were three Elven kingdoms remaining in Middle Earth and only two had rings, Mithrandir had a nerve to come to the only Elven kingdom which was without an Elven ring, while he himself was wearing Narya the Great, an Elven ring of power. 

Regardless of the politics, the practical result was that Legolas thus had no opportunity to meet any who could be partners in love.

When he encountered the Men in Dale, he understood what others meant when they thought him too young. At twenty, Men were considered to be of age, but that seemed to him to be indecently young. He could not feel moved by them at that age, even though some were fair to look upon. By the time they were seventy and closer to a sensible age, and had some life experience, few sought out such couplings with strangers and even if they had, their frailty at the end of their years was unappealing to him.

Now, here were these soft lips before him. Pink and wet. The Dwarf’s chest was heaving and he himself felt like he had been running, though he had not moved.

He was already sure he knew the answer, but he needed to ask. “Dwarf, are you of age?”

The Dwarf laughed. “I was of age almost seventy-five years ago.”

Legolas whispered, “may I kiss you?”

The Dwarf nodded and Legolas leaned forward. He closed his eyes, then pressed their lips together. He could feel the Dwarf’s eyelashes fluttering against his own cheeks. His lips felt soft and warm and a bit damp. He pressed harder and felt a scrape of teeth, so pulled back. 

It was rather disappointing. 

He had heard one friend say it was like a comet shooting through the skies, and another said he had felt a flock of hummingbirds in his stomach. This just felt awkward. Legolas decided to try again.

The tickle of the beard was not unpleasant, and he brought out the tip of his tongue to run over the edge of the moustache. The Dwarf made a strangled sound, and the hands which had rested by his sides came up and gripped Legolas’ shoulders. Legolas gasped, and as his lips parted, he felt the slide of the Dwarf’s lips against his own. He tasted the ale on the Dwarf’s lips and also tasted smoke. Beneath that he tasted a faint trace of metal. He pulled away, leaving just a twig’s width between their mouths and took a breath. The intimacy of that shared breath caused goosebumps to run up his arms. He drew close once more and kissed him again. This time he felt the Dwarf’s tongue press forwards and he allowed it in. It was gentle, and made tiny circles inside his bottom lip, then did the same on the top.

Time seemed to stop as they melded their lips together, and he had no idea how long they embraced thus. Legolas then pressed his own tongue forward to meet the Dwarf’s and they both groaned. Head spinning, Legolas pulled back and was embarrassed to see his own hand again pressing against his leggings. He felt the warmth of moisture seeping through the thin fabric. Hopefully, as the length of the tunic had covered his hand, the Dwarf would not realise his lapse, and would not know he had been touching himself. Involuntarily, he keened in frustration at the ache he felt.

The Dwarf stepped closer into the V of Legolas’ legs. Gently, he splayed his large, hot hands over Legolas’ waist, then firmly pulled Legolas’ hips to the edge of the bed. The Dwarf pressed closer still and pushed his groin firmly against Legolas’ hard length. The heat flaring off the Dwarf and the thrills flooding through him were now almost overwhelming. Almost physically painful, but a sweetness in the sensations made him want to exist in each of these moments forever. His breath was coming to him in short puffs and he moved to chase the feeling. He moved in the rhythm he had not known he knew, and pulses of pleasure ran through his body.

Time seemed to stretch as they moved together, rocked together, then he felt a change. “Eru!” he moaned. He now felt as if he were falling from a tree. He tried to arrest the fall, but the motion continued unabated. Oh, the warmth was spreading through him. He knew his hands must be gripping the Dwarf, he must be hurting him, but he could not loosen his hold.

Legolas had once spied on his eldest brother with an elleth in a room in the palace. His brother had looked up and noticed him hiding. Half-dressed, Opherion had chased him through the palace, and for the first and only time in his life he had received a thrashing. Now, he remembered the noises he had heard as he spied on the pair, and he realised that he could hear the same noises coming from his own mouth.

The Dwarf was breathing like a bull as he rocked, and in earnest now they were rubbing against each other, as if to meld together. _Ai!_ It was nothing like it was alone with his own hand.

Sometimes, Legolas would take himself in hand. He had once thought about rubbing against a favourite tree instead. But over the years, the trees had grown still and could not get away if they no longer wished to feel his touch. So he had refrained. 

In any case, now no one was permitted to be out in the forest alone. He would have had no privacy for such a thing. Outside the protection of the palace, they now all were required to be armed and alert to danger. There was no place for such indulgences.

So, Legolas would lock himself in his rooms and silently bring himself to climax. The physical release was welcome, and afterwards he felt relaxed. It was nothing like this explosive heat, which wanted to consume him, to devour him.

White danced behind Legolas’ tightly closed eyes and he keened again and bit the heel of his hand to muffle the sound. The Dwarf gripped him by the wrist and drew away his hand and impossibly, pressed him even closer as they rocked together in counterpoint.

“Let me hear you, Elf,” he murmured, then kissed the tip of his ear.

Beyond his own volition he now called out. He could no longer separate the sensations, and he felt himself unravel, unspool, come undone, until he collapsed, boneless into the Dwarf’s arms. The Dwarf shuddered then after a time, Legolas felt himself being placed on the bed, and he let himself sink into the warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase ‘awful great beard’ stuck in my head after reading Lordnelson100’s ‘Unwilling’ some years ago.
> 
> Thanks for reading, for your kudos and comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Aylwyyn228 for beta help, all remaining errors are my own.

The door squeaked loudly as they entered the room and Gimli firmly believed the rusty hinges were a kindly security measure, so that occupants could be given a few seconds warning if their door was opened by someone able to bypass the lock.

Gimli placed the knife he had used as a signal on the table into one boot, and took a different, cheaper knife from his other boot and stuck it into the door as the Elf walked into the room: _this room is under guard_. That should be enough to allow the Elf to rest undisturbed. The knife may be stolen in the night, but none would dare to try and force entry. Gimli should have left him there. He did not know why he had followed him in. He made excuses to himself; _the Elf did not even notice the knife_ _in the door. One so oblivious would not be safe here alone_. With such thoughts, he reinforced his decision to enter the room and close the door behind him.

He could see the Elf hesitating, wavering, unsure as he sat on the bed. He reminded him of a skittish bird. He would never take one unwilling to his bed, so Gimli waited in silence for him to come to a decision. He knew Elves did not fuck, so he was not quite sure what he was expecting, but he was looking forward to finding out.

He had not known what he had expected the Elf to say, but it had not been that - _may I touch your beard -_ and his surprise came through in laughter.

For more traditional Dwarves, only after a year of courting could a couple touch one another’s beards. The argument was that the skin under the beard never saw the sun, even when the Dwarf was undressed, so that was the most hidden part of a Dwarf and the most intimate. But collectively more recent memory was filled with Azanulbizar, the dragon, the battle of Five Armies. One’s span on Arda could be cut short at any minute. Yes, he and many others recognised that the rules were in place to prevent recklessness and to prevent people from hurting themselves and others. But that was not enough to convince him that the dance of bodies, of vitality and laughter should be locked away and portioned out in meagre doses. He would be careful of the hearts of others but find joy where it could be found.

He had courted once. The dam had been much younger, only two decades past her majority, but had been much more traditional than he. Though he had been frustrated sometimes, she had been enough for him to wait, to limit himself to chaste kisses on the back of her hand and not so chaste dreams and morning relief alone in his bed. Eventually, they found they differed in too many things and had parted.

He wanted to travel, she wanted to remain in Erebor. Though Ered Luin had had its privations he understood that the refugees who had settled there were some of the lucky ones. Some families who had fled the dragon had never settled permanently anywhere, working as tinkers and smiths in circuits around Mannish towns. She had never before had the stability of solid rock around her and now that she had found it, clung to it and would not leave.

She had wanted them to live with her parents after they were wed, as was traditional but he wanted them to have their own private home.

Their leaders cried out how their numbers had been decimated and they needed to repopulate the Dwarrowdelf and other Dwarrow settlements. She wanted dwarrowlings right away, but he had hoped they could put it off for at least fifty, if not a hundred years. Certainly, if they did so, they would be older than most parents when the child was of age, but even when they were gone, the child would still have family, given the number of cousins he had and their own large broods. Large families were a blessing from Mahal, and repopulation had been the keyword for the last eighty years, but even when it was sorely wished for, too often a Dam could carry only one child, if she could carry at all.

After he was of age, Gimli’s own mother had confessed to him that she had had copper stars installed after Gimli was born. She could not bear to bring another child into this uncertainty. Then, even after they were content and secure in Erebor, and she had still been of an age to bear, she had not been able to let go of the fear that the next disaster might be round the corner. She let others outside their family and close friends think she could only bear one, in order to avoid the inevitable backlash from the Repopulists, especially as she was a ‘public figure’ as the wife of a Hero of Erebor, and would be seen to be setting a Bad Example.

Gimli made the decision that external dictates would not rule him on such intimate matters, he would judge for himself. So Gimli had learned to be discrete, but to chase his pleasure. He was far from traditional, but even so, a thrill of the taboo ran through him as this Elf boldly asked to touch his beard.

The musk of the smell of what he _knew_ to be the Elf’s arousal hit him as he drew close. It smelt fresh, and warm, like warm soil after rain almost, but with a salty undertone.

He allowed Elf to touch his beard, and though he did not hold to the old ways, he was still struck, as if by a physical blow, by the intimacy of it. His heartbeat increased and the gentle touch felt almost loving. Gimli saw the movement as the Elf’s hand reached under his own tunic and a heat thrummed through him at the sight. He could no longer catch his breath. He felt the tingle down his legs, and as the heat of his arousal grew, he could no longer think.

Then the Elf awkwardly kissed him and knocked his teeth against him, and Gimli was jolted back. Did Elves not know the art of kissing? This Elf confused him. At once so bold but at the same time so hesitant. He had not been expecting this. Everyone knew; _Elves don’t fuck._

Gimli decided to let the Elf set the pace. It turned out that the Elf _did_ know how to kiss, after all. Gimli was carried away on this wave of desire and with every sigh of his came a response and the sounds alone was driving Gimli to the edge. His breath was heavy, and he felt his cock straining against his trews and he rocked against the Elf and sought relief. Ah fuck - he was confused! _Elves don’t fuck._ But they were fucking now. Did they mean they did not go skin-to-skin, that they did not penetrate? Because this dance of their bodies, this cant of hips and play of breath and sound and sweat and kisses - this was fucking, even though they were both still clothed.

People called it music and he had scoffed, but now he understood. Gimli was providing the steady melody, and the harmonies and descant were coming from the Elf as they moved in concert, pressed together as if drawing apart were unthinkable.

The Elf was trying to stifle his cries, but there was no need for that here. He felt a tremor run through the Elf as he whispered in his ear. _Mahal,_ this Elf was so sweet. He could remain with him here for as long as the Elf wished. For days if he so desired, holding him and tasting the slick saltiness of him and smelling him and listening to his moans and cries of pleasure.

The sweat was now making the light garment cling to the Elf and he could see the dark outlines of his nipples through the damp cloth. The Elf threw his head back and his nipples came into sharp relief. Through the cloth of the shirt, Gimli first licked then bit down gently on those nipples - _Mahal!_ \- He moved to suck at them again, then the Elf had gripped him close and he felt the tremors ripple through his body. He held him through the waves and murmured Khudzul nonsense onto the top of his head, his lips pressing on the black hair. _I’m here with you, Elf. Aye, lovely one, I’m holding you and will not let you fall, let go, let go, I will catch you_.

 _Mahal’s balls!_ The noises the Elf was making were obscene. Gimli’s head was spinning and he could feel the completion boiling up in his loins. With one hand Gimli unlaced himself, and with a few pumps reached his own climax as the Elf shuddered in his hold. As Gimli came apart, he thought in that moment he would do anything for this Elf, even lay down his very life. Even as he thought it, he knew it was foolish, but he was consumed.

The Elf sprawled and seemed boneless. He was far lighter than he would have imagined, given his height, but even so, arranging those long limbs on the bed as they flopped was difficult to do. Gimli did not feel right about going into the leggings with a damp cloth, as the Elf had not uncovered himself during lovemaking, but he wiped the streak of his own cum from the Elf’s shirt then tried to put him under the covers. Like an unruly seam of copper in a mine, the Elf filled the whole bed, limbs sprawled in every direction, so Gimli decided to spend the remainder of the night in the chair.

Given what they had just done, it would not have been unreasonable for him to try and press against him to make space in the bed, especially given the late hour, but on the other hand, he did not even know the Elf’s name.

He could hear the activity in the two adjacent rooms, but he knew one room was still unoccupied. On the way up, he had seen the key on the hook for one of the remaining rooms in the inn, showing it had still been available for hire. But he was loath to leave the Elf alone here. He knew he was making excuses when he said to himself that he did not want the door to disturb the Elf. The Elf had not stirred when Gimli turned the lock in the door, nor when he removed his fine boots, nor the bracers. Gimli had hesitated in removing the belt and the hair pin. The Elf would not rest comfortably with either still on, but at the same time, should the Elf stir whilst he was removing the jewel or the belt to which his coin was tied, the Elf would suspect him of theft. The Elf’s hair adornment was a beautiful gem. Growing up with a jeweller had taught Gimli how to appreciate a gem and like the Elf himself, it was simply cut but brilliant. It looked priceless.

In the end, he took the risk, removed them and set them aside. The Elf did not make any sign that he was aware and continued in his heavy sleep.

Maybe the traditionalists _were_ right. If he had not been thinking with his hammer, he would not have made a lapse like forgetting to lock the door. What if someone had burst in, ready to attack, whilst he was grinding against an Elf?

He did not know if his pipe would disturb the Elf’s sleep, so he refrained and sat, making himself comfortable. Part of his training as a warrior was in how to sleep lightly; to be aware of one’s surroundings while still taking rest, so he dozed lightly in the chair, axe in hand..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of a type of copper or mithril IUD called ‘copper stars’ or ‘stars of Durin’ comes from a drabble of either ThunderaTiger or Hobbitdragon (sorry, can’t find it now).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta Aylwyyn228.
> 
> Feedback, comments, <3, concrit - all welcome.

Legolas opened his eyes. It was still dark and he was alone in the bed. Had the Dwarf gone? With a sinking feeling Legolas realised that he did not even know his name.

As he stretched, Legolas became aware of a feeling of heaviness in his limbs. His head felt like it was stuffed with wool. _Elbereth!_ He had intended to true-sleep, but out of choice, not like this! He had fallen off a cliff, felt himself collapsing into the Dwarf’s arms. Now, as he awoke slowly he found himself fully dressed in the bed, with just his belt, shoes, and bracers removed. He turned his head, and in the moonlight could see the Dwarf was still here, asleep in the chair, and Legolas smiled. 

Stretching again, Legolas scrunched up his face as he felt the cold, sticky mess in his leggings. The Dwarf quickly awoke, lit the lamp and held out a damp cloth to him. Legolas turned his back, and embarrassed, reached inside his leggings and wiped away the worst of the mess then threw the cloth onto the floor.

Now the Dwarf stood awkwardly by the bed, no more than an outline in the deep shadow as he stood before the lamp, but he looked nervous and uncertain. Legolas was still groggy and too tired to begin _thinking_ about things. He pulled back the covers and moved over to one side. A few moments later he felt the dip in the mattress as the Dwarf’s bulk settled behind him. Legolas shuffled back until he felt the Dwarf’s chest pressed against his back, then he changed his mind and lay on his back and took the Dwarf’s broad hand and placed it over his heart.

In such a short blink of time, he had shared so much with this Dwarf but he did not even know his name. More than anything, Legolas wanted to be held and to hear that rumbling voice in his ear again.

“Speak, Dwarf. Tell me of yourself.”

Gimli, for that was his name, spoke of his apprentice and of how proud he was of her today. Legolas listened but he felt as he did after drinking too much of certain vintages, too groggy to speak. Legolas’ hands were in Gimli’s beard, and Gimli stroked Legolas’ hair and as he spoke. The gentle rhythm of both his voice and his hand lulled him back into sleep. As he drifted off, he heard the Dwarf speak of the crystal ornament he was making for his father. He felt the tickle of his beard as he kissed the top of Legolas’ head, then sleep claimed him again.

Legolas woke once again, this time to the thin, pre-dawn light. He lay still and tried to decide what to do.

The semen had seeped into his smallclothes, he could smell it. If he came home like this, his brothers would want to know which Man it had been and then come into Dale to say, who knows what to him or her. Telling them it was a Dwarf was simply out of the question. Lately, Thranduil’s temper had been even more on edge than before. Given his feelings towards Dwarves, even being ‘little acorn’, or perhaps, _especially_ being ‘little acorn’, would not shield Legolas from a blast of fury. Ever since this Man, Estel had brought the creature to the dungeons, Thranduil had been even more brooding than before. Thranduil had warned Legolas to stay away from the Man, and he had seen only brief glimpses of him. Legolas knew not of what they spoke, but his father’s eyes were now dull with pain. 

Somehow, this Man was a fosterling of Elrond, so once again, his father had felt as if Elrond had saddled him with problems but offered no assistance. Requesting that the creature be held secure in Thranduil's dungeons, the Man had made his way back to Elrond. He had said that to travel with it to Rivendell would not be possible, but Legolas knew his father smelt only an excuse, and in the weeks after Estel had left, the smallest thing would trigger his ire.

As quietly as he could, Legolas rolled out of the bed. He stood, removed his leggings and then tossed his soiled breechclout into the empty fireplace. Quickly he replaced his leggings, pulled on his boots and tied the purses onto his belt. Finally, Legolas secured his weapons on his back. The Dwarf - _Gimli_ \- Legolas smiled, seemed to still be asleep. Nothing could come of this, so it would be better to leave quietly, before he woke.

He paused and thought. Dwarves liked the gleam of gold, and the etchings on his coin had been quite pretty, he should leave a reminder of their time together. On the chair by the Dwarf’s belongings he placed the coin then climbed out of the window to avoid the squeaking door, making his way to the stables and back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estel is one of Aragorn’s other names, which he uses among the Elves. It means 'hope' and the name was given to him when his mother Gilraen took him to Rivendell as a child. He also goes by Strider, which he mainly uses as a Ranger. Aragorn used the alias Thorongil in his youth in Rohan and Gondor. He uses the name Elessar when he takes the throne. 
> 
> The next update will be a longer chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Aylwyyn228 for betaing and to fallingsnow6136 for brainstorming on Discord.
> 
> Apologies for the late update. The next will be on Saturday as usual.
> 
> Amad - Khuzdul (dwarf language) - mother
> 
> 'Adad - Khuzdul (dwarf language) - father
> 
> I love, love, love hearing from you. Typos, concrit, what you liked, anything - I love hearing your thoughts.

From his chair, Gimli saw the movement in the dark. The Elf was waking up. Gimli reached across and handed him the cloth he had wrung out in anticipation. The Elf then invited him into the bed and a pleased feeling settled in Gimli's stomach. He removed his boots with a smile on his face.

As he climbed into the bed, he placed a knife under his pillow. Nori had trained him too well for him to sleep unarmed. He knew Elves were impossibly fast; he would not stand any chance against them, so he would just have to trust this Elf, and somehow, he knew he could. It was more from a worry that some of last evening’s patrons may have reconsidered letting not one, but two bulging purses walk away without a fight. He settled and folded the Elf into his arms. The Elf was stroking his beard again, but this time as one would a tame ferret or some other pet, and it was without heat. So Gimli spoke as he had been asked and only stroked the Elf’s hair and did not attempt to restart the bed sport, again taking his cues from the Elf.

The Elf’s breathing was slow, and became slower still as Gimli spoke of Erebor, of his workshop and of his plans for the day. He stopped talking only when the Elf’s gentle snores started again.

He realised that he himself had fallen completely asleep only when he jolted awake, as he felt the mattress shift. The Elf’s back was turned towards him and he saw him standing and removing his leggings. His hammer stirred in interest, but the Elf simply discarded his breechclout and donned his leggings once again. The Elf began to put on his boots and Gimli lay still. This part would be awkward. How would this Elf wish to proceed? As if it had never happened? 

Elves and Dwarves did not have romances, so there was not much to think about on that score. This was not something that would go any further. A one night encounter. There was nothing to be done about it. He pressed down his feelings. Nothing could come of it.

They would just keep the encounter as a good memory. 

Gimli closed his eyes. He remained lying still. He decided that when he heard the Elf cross the room to the door, he would sit up. Maybe ask for another kiss. So Gimli remained motionless on the bed, waiting. After a few moments, he dared to open his eyes, only to see the Elf climbing out of the window. _Fuck._ He had not heard _any_ of the Elf’s footsteps. He was gone. He would probably never see him again.

Gimli breathed out a sigh of disappointment; the Elf had wished to avoid awkward goodbyes. He could not begrudge him that, Gimli had even done so himself on occasion. But in those instances, Gimli had known they would bump into each other again sooner or later, and to varying degrees, he remained on friendly terms with nearly all those he had shared such heat with.

Now Gimli walked to the window and looked out. Framed in the early dawn light, the Elf was already entering the stables. Gimli watched as the stable boy, who slept in the hay loft, came out. He still looked groggy and dishevelled as he led out the horse. The Elf handed the boy a coin, and Gimli hoped it was at least one of the coppers. He jumped onto his horse, without a saddle or tack, and rode away at a fearsome speed, his black hair sailing behind him. 

Gimli stopped himself from calling out. 

The Elf did not look back.

Gimli quashed down a feeling of loss, and decided to dress and start his day. It was still very early, and as Nori and Dwalin were sleeping at the palace, they would not be getting up at such an hour. If he wanted, Gimli could join them later for breakfast, but the dainty manner of eating he was expected to adopt when among the courtiers somehow took away from the pleasure of the food. He would rather pass by the bakery which he knew opened at dawn and have some of the soft rolls they sold. He was thinking about his pipe when the glint of gold caught his eye.

A coin. A gold coin. Gimli stilled and he felt as if cold water trickled down his chest and pooled into a reservoir of dismay. Had the Elf thought him a pleasure worker? Was that why they had not undressed? He knew that some who visited such establishments wanted to limit the intimacy of the interactions and wanted only physical pleasure, and to not share of themselves, to not share any intimacy or vulnerability. Had the Elf known what it meant to touch a Dwarf’s beard? And yet he had held back and remained clothed because he thought the interaction was a paid exchange? But that kiss! Not the first few, but those which had followed. He had felt like he was tasting the Elf’s essence, like he was understanding a new language and that the Elf was also seeing him for himself. He had nothing against those who chose the profession; it was a way to make money. But he had thought they were meeting as equals, as lovers, even just temporarily. 

_Fuck_

He felt an urge to fling the coin from the window and send it in the Elf’s direction, but he knew that would be foolish. His eyes prickled. So last night had just been an illusion. Briskly he finished getting dressed, gathered up his things, including the coin and left the room. The knife was still there in the door, he almost cut himself as he replaced it in his boot. He must have made an impression on the patrons and the server as no one had disturbed them during the night.

He came down the stairs and saw a thin girl scrubbing the floors. She glared as he walked across the wet floor, but she made no move to stop him walking out into the cold, grey light.

*

It was almost midday when Nori and Dwalin found him sitting in the royal stables by their ponies. The stable boy was ignoring Gimli as he worked around him. The thunder in Gimli’s face did not invite conversation.

“You have no parcels! Did the market have none of the things you came to get?” 

Gimli shrugged and grunted.

“We left you hale and hearty,” drawled Dwalin, “now your face is like that of someone who discovered that a hobbit has found all their hidden snacks.”

Gimli did not even smile and Nori and Dwalin exchanged a look. The stable boy helped ready their ponies, then together they made their way back to Erebor. Nori shared that the people in Dale had also seen the Black Rider, also asking them of ‘Baggins’. After eighty years, no one of influence remained in that Mannish place who had seen the dragon first-hand and there was no loyalty here to Bilbo Baggins. Fortunately, they also had little information they were able to share, only to confirm that they had heard of a Baggins of the Shire and that he was somehow connected to the Dwarves.

In response, Gimli just grunted, and continued walking.

“King Dáin is probably going to have to send envoys to ask the Elves for advice, before the rider returns.”

“Fucking Elves,” Gimli muttered and spat on the ground.

Again, Nori and Dwalin exchanged looks over his head as Gimli walked between their mounts.

“What’s gone and mixed chalk in your shale, lad?” asked Dwalin.

Perhaps it was all the years of training under him which could not allow him to be rude to Dwalin and not answer a direct question.

Gimli reached into his pocket and drew out the coin, handing it to Dwalin.

Dwalin let out a low whistle, and Nori simply, said “you know better than to keep that in your pocket.”

Dwalin asked, “where did you get that, lad? Gambling? Nah, I know you made your Ma a promise. So,” he laughed, “you must be turning tricks!”

Gimli vomited.

He walked a few steps away from the mess, then squatted down, as his head was starting to spin. Brown spots were dancing in front of his eyes, expanding and filling his vision. Even as he squatted, he could feel the darkness closing in.

Cold water over his head shocked him back into alertness. Gratefully, Gimli took the waterskin and swilled out his mouth.

“We are too old to carry you, lad.” Nori’s voice was practical, and matter-of-fact, and perhaps it was that, more than anything else which brought Gimli back to full alertness.

“Too much to drink?”

“I had only one ale,” Gimli responded.

Dwalin crouched beside Gimli, rubbing his back, while Nori now stood, seemingly casually, but Gimli knew his eyes were taking in everything around, automatically on lookout when his partner’s attention was otherwise occupied .

“Have you started gambling, lad?”

Gold-sickness was a known affliction of the line of Durin. A less well-known malady which often took hold in those of their line was compulsive gambling. When he was still a child, before he had started to learn Khudzul even, Gimli had promised his mother he would never gamble, not even for copper coins or for fun. She rarely asked him for such declarations, and he made the vow gladly. His father had a second cousin who had died with not a bead remaining to his name, and his mother had not wanted Gimli to open the door to that addiction.

Gimli shook his head.

Nori crouched down and now Dwalin stood and scanned the surroundings.

Nori tried a different tack, and with a hand on his shoulder, Nori asked. “Where did you get the coin, Gimli?”

“The Boar’s Head,” he whispered.

“And who gave it to you?”

Gimli’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, but he managed to croak out, “an Elf.”

Silence.

“Let us continue walking. Everything will look better when we are all under the mountain.” 

Gimli sincerely doubted it.

As they walked Nori said, “Maybe _I_ should tell you what happened. You went upstairs with an Elf. Then, presumably he gave you this coin?”

Gimli gaped at him.

Nori took pity on him. “I have my own sources, Gimli, lad. They let me know where you went last night.” Gimli couldn’t even be angry. Everyone knew Nori spied on everyone.

“Did you know that the Elves come to Dale to spy, and use pleasure workers for information?” Nori’s calm delivery made Gimli want to throw something, to rage, but he just bit his tongue and kicked at a rock in the road.

Gimli knew that gathering information from pleasure workers was a well-known technique. Pleasure workers are able to wring out all sorts of secrets, they see all sorts of things. Nori knew effective spywork when he saw it. Whenever they travelled to Ered Luin, the Iron Hills and even further afield, Nori would make use of this information source. When he sequestered himself with a pleasure worker in a foreign town, he even let it be known that he favoured dainty females so that it would not be widely known that his type was in fact big and brawny and decidedly male.

But this Elf could not have been a spy. He had seemed oblivious to his surroundings, and if he had come to get information from a pleasure worker, why waste the evening with him?

Nori continued. “Thranduil used to use sources in Laketown, then when Dale was restored, the Boar’s Head became his favoured location. He sends Elves to get information. The pleasure workers are happy, because they get to sit and to be listened to for once, they get to sleep the whole night and they don’t have to do anything strange or unsanitary, which they usually would have to for that amount of coin.”

The Elf had left him to sleep. The Elf had listened to him talking.

“How do you know all this, Nori?” Gimli asked hoarsely.

“Lad, you know it is my job to know things.”

Gimli cast a plaintive look at him, and Nori relented.

The pleasure workers were paid by the Elves to speak and also paid to keep quiet. Nori had paid a lot himself to get the information about the arrangement between the Elves and the pleasure workers who plied their trade from the Boar’s Head tavern. The workers said they enjoyed having an undemanding client, one who only wanted to listen to them talk about their lives.

Nori also revealed that the proprietor had an edict against any violence towards Elves. Every Man in there knew it. The Elves’ overpayment and provision of a regular income to both the owner and the pleasure workers made them valued guests. They even had small portraits of the Elves of high status, and staff were required to learn the faces. The owner would not want ‘unpleasantness’ forcing the Elves to a different establishment. Anyone who started trouble with an Elf was banned for life, as were his companions. No one was willing to risk it. If nothing else, laziness protected the Elves. The patrons were too lazy to walk the distance to a different tavern, so that laziness held them in check and guaranteed ‘safe passage’ as it were, for the Elves.

So, the Elf had not really been in any danger at all. He would not have been attacked for his purse of coins.

"Why haven’t you ever told me this before, Nori?”

“Well, you know how your Da is about Elves, and it seemed as if you were going down the same path.”

Glóin would begin ranting when Elves were mentioned, so the unspoken rule in their home was ‘Don’t Mention the Elves’. Gimli himself had also generally adopted this mindset of avoiding talking about Elves, and thus, it appeared he and Nori had never discussed the Elves of Mirkwood.

“Do they only get information from Men? What about Dwarves?” Gimli felt sick to his stomach, dreading the answer.

As far as Nori knew, the Elves had made no attempt to gain information from Erebor, though Nori said he suspected some of the thrushes and ravens found their way to Mirkwood.

“What kind of information do they ask for, Nori? Army numbers, locations of weapons and food stores? That sort of thing?”

“No, it’s funny, they only ask them to tell them about their day, their families, their friends. It must be of some use, because they keep doing it.”

“So the Elves just fuck them, interrogate them, and leave.” Gimli spat out.

Nori looked at him strangely. “No. They never fuck. That’s the one thing consistent in all the reports. Some will allow their hair to be brushed or combed, but that’s it.

“Well, Nori,” Gimli’s words were clipped. “Your sources might be wrong.”

Dwalin began to hand him back the coin.

“Keep it,” he said bitterly.

So, the bumbling act had all been a ruse. In fact, that bulging purse and casual display of gold in the tavern could have been specifically crafted to snare a Dwarf. Gimli groaned.

At this point Dwalin turned the pony to block Gimli’s path. He looked him in the eye and asked, “Gimli, what have you done, lad? Are you selling secrets?”

“No, I just fucked an Elf and told him about my day.”

Gimli had expected them to explode, but Nori simply asked, “and what did the Elf tell you?”

Gimli realised he knew nothing, not even his name. The silence spoke for itself.

“You didn’t say anything about Bilbo did you?”

Gimli wanted to snap back, saying “I’m not stupid!” But that’s what he was. Very, very stupid. So, all he could say was, “he asked nothing of that and I said nothing.”

Gimli had been so wrong. He had been overconfident, feeling that the years of training from Nori had made him adept at reading people, but he had been wrong. He could read Dwarves and Men maybe, but not Elves. Glóin had been right. Even now, among the Elves, surely the tale was being told that with a tickle of the beard and a rub of the hammer a Dwarf could be brought to spill and also to divulge secrets. Elves were not to be trusted.

*

Dwalin and Nori had agreed to come to Gimli’s home later that same day. They needed their baths and to rest first. Nori said his liaison with the Elf was a matter pertinent to the security of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, and therefore king Dáin would have to be told. Gimli knew he was not asking for permission to share the news, simply doing him a courtesy by letting him know, and it went without saying that he could not control who Nori decided to tell. King Dáin would then, naturally, consult with his advisers when he heard.

Gimli could not keep a secret like this from his father, especially since it would no longer be contained between Nori, Dwalin and himself. In any case, Gimli knew, and now the knowledge was reinforced by bitter experience, that lies and deceit would twist and poison everything they touch. He would not have a lie between himself and his father. _Fuck_. 

Gimli feared the news could kill Glóin. What had he been thinking? He hadn't been thinking at all. 

Gimli spoke with his mother when he returned home, telling her only that Nori and Dwalin would come to the house that afternoon with some bad news and to prepare Glóin. Gimli would not tell her as he did not want _her_ to have the burden of keeping his secret away from Glóin.

After the third glass of his favourite liquorice-flavoured drink, as Gimli served him, Glóin, canny as ever, asked what they were buttering him up for. All Thali would say was that there was some bad news Gimli wanted to deliver and he was waiting for Nori and Dwalin. Gloin paled and sank into the cushions which had already been prepared for him to sink into.

“Is it news of Ori, Balin and,” he swallowed, “Oin?”

“No, Da,” Gimli gentled. “Still no word. It is something else.” He swallowed again. “It is about me.”

When they arrived, Nori and Dwalin did not even bother with pleasantries or chat about the price of ore. After they both greeted Thali with a kiss, they sat down.

Without preamble, Nori spoke. “Gimli took an Elf to bed. One of the spies.”

Glóin snorted a laugh. Seeing Nori’s face bore no trace of humour, Glóin quickly glanced at Dwalin, who nodded solemnly. 

Glóin looked sadly at Nori, then at Dwalin. He shook his head, almost to himself, with tears in his eyes. He shook his head again and patted Nori’s hand.

He turned to Dwalin. “Will you keep Nori at home with you, bringing in a nurse, or put him into a specialised establishment? You can pay for the best now, you know, whatever you choose.”

Glóin turned and spoke to Nori tenderly. “Nori, Mahal has been merciful. By his favour so many of the Company still remain, and He has kept us all to a good age, but now He has taken your wits.”

The four of them had to work to convince Glóin that it was neither a joke nor was Nori experiencing mental decline. When the news eventually sank in, Glóin sat catatonic.

His amad took a pragmatic approach as she spoke to Gimli.

“With your Da’s fixation with them, it’s hardly a surprise you were curious enough to bed one. Make sure you get to the healer and check they have not left you with a disease below.”

When Gimli said, “there would be no disease,” she looked at him quizzically, but trusted him to know what he was about. His 'adad said nothing, seemingly still in a daze.

Gimli and Thali prepared and brought out food and they all sat around the table. While they were eating, Dís arrived, and without ceremony joined the meal. Gimli cringed, as he presumed that as a close adviser to the king she now knew, but she treated him no differently. Glóin’s food sat before him untouched throughout the meal.

Then as Gimli was bringing some sweet pastries to finish the meal, Glóin seemed to rouse himself. He sat up straight in his chair and spoke slowly and deliberately. “Bring my axe, Thali. Give it to our son so that he might cleave my head in twain. Or if you’d prefer, just a dagger to the heart, lad. Lay down a towel first so there is less mess to clean up. He means to kill me, the lad does. Let’s not draw it out. Just be done with it, lad.”

Guilt twisted in Gimli’s chest and he struggled to find a response, but Dís was the first to react.

“For Mahal’s sake, Glóin. Give over,” she said. “I’d shave off all my fucking hair, even my badger, just to have a few minutes with my boys.”

The crudity seemed to stun Glóin into speechlessness.

Dís continued, still in a sensible, down to Arda voice. “Your boy is still here with you. Don’t be an arse and stop talking such shite. I’ve known you since I was born. You’re not an idiot, so stop being one.”

Everyone had stopped eating and no one spoke. They all knew better than to interrupt Dís once she was in full flow.

Her voice wavered now. “Kili - after I found out about Kili - the Elf wrote to me - after - and I like to think I would have accepted them. Had he lived.” She paused, collected herself then continued. “The Elf sailed away, and I’ve not heard from her since, but she was not a monster. She fucking helped you to escape, Glóin. You are a jeweller, Glóin. You know gems have many facets. Elves are not all one thing. She said she had loved him. I like to think I would have accepted an Elf as a law daughter for the sake of my son. Sulk for a few days if you want, Glóin, but you need to get over Gimli’s tumble.” She couldn’t resist getting a dig in at Gimli. “And _you_ need to stop thinking with your prick.”

Dís had come to tell them of Dain’s decision before the king summoned them formally in the morning. Gimli had been selected to join the group which was to travel to seek advice from the Elves regarding the Black Rider. The reason for his selection was fourfold. He was of the line of Durin, thus a fitting representative of Erebor. He was skilled in arms, so if the solution proposed by the Elves involved force, he could meet the challenge. Though not officially apprenticed, he had learned much from his father’s cousin Balin and was trained in the ways of diplomacy. The final justification was questionable. Dáin had said that if he liked an Elf enough to fuck one, then he would be the least prejudiced representative they could find who fit all the other criteria. Dáin was aware of the fall-out with the nameless Elf but countered that by saying the fact Gimli had been open-minded enough for the initial encounter was sufficient.

Mirkwood had never been on the cards in terms of asking for advice about the Black Rider. Despite tentative trade relations, and the fact they had fought together against Orcs and Goblins some eighty years ago, the goodwill between the neighbouring kingdoms was tenuous. Little news came from Mirkwood, but when Tharkûn visited Erebor, he spoke of how it was being overrun by spiders and consumed by the darkness: If they could not save their own kingdom, then they had no useful advice to offer Erebor in that regard.

Over the next few days there was a frenzy of preparation. They would have to ride ponies for speed, and it would take close to a month to reach Rivendell. The atmosphere at home had been chilly. His mother carried on as normal, but Glóin did everything he could to avoid him, and they had not spoken about the Elf.

Gimli saw his father oiling two waterproof travel cloaks and watched silently.

“Well, it helps no-one if we both get soaked through.”

Gimli walked into his father’s embrace and listened to the muffled words as Glóin spoke into his hair. “This will be the last chance we have to travel together. My bones are old, lad and I can hear the stone calling to me in the distance.”

Gimli squeezed back tears and remained in that familiar embrace.

“I’m still furious with you, lad. I know you didn’t do it to spite me, I know you’ve not a malicious hair on your head, but how could you be so daft? It’s not from your mother, that’s for sure, so it must be from me. I don’t understand where we went wrong.”

There were no answers to questions like that, so Gimli simply made every effort to enjoy the time remaining and to organise his affairs before they left. There was always a risk with any journey that one would not return, and with that in mind, he bade his friends and relations farewell, spending a fair amount of time in taverns but did not end the evenings in anyone’s arms.

“'Adad, what about the Elves – are you not afraid of journeying to their realm? What if they imprison us as you fear?”

“Then we will be imprisoned. If we are able to send word, that’s all that matters. Two ravens will accompany us. They will fly free, so if we are captured one can send word of that. Another will remain nearby, and if the answer to our question is found and we can communicate with it, it can fly back to Erebor, and the mission will still be a success.”

On the morning of his departure, Nori came in with a pair of boots.

“I got your size from an old pair.”

Gimli did not even want to know how he had obtained them, though it was possible his parents had aided him.

“A long journey’s not the time to be breaking in new boots, you’ve said so to me before.”

“Lad, the blisters will be worth it.”

Nori sat him down and showed him the boots. On the outside they looked ordinary, even somewhat the worse for wear and scuffed. At Gimli’s look Nori said, “I had to pay a pretty penny to get them that worn and battered.”

Like his current boots, they allowed him to store a knife in the sides.

Nori explained that they were waterproof and the sole had a grip, due to the application of a product traded by Easterlings. Inside, they were reinforced with a mithril mesh. No arrow or sword would penetrate. How much must that have cost?

Nori moved the inner lining of one panel. “In case you lose your purse, lad.” Gold and silver coins were sewn into the sides. “The other is lined with coppers in case you are in a situation where you would rather not flash gold or silver. They are weighted evenly.”

“Press here,” and a blade emerged from the front toe of the boots.

Around the rim of one boot ran a wire. By lifting a flap at the back of the heel you could pull it out. Nori looked solemn. It can be used as a garotte. Alongside Dwalin’s formal, traditional weapons training, Nori had seen fit to train him in other techniques, some downright dirty. He had never had cause to use them in earnest, but Nori had said “you can feel guilty, but you will be alive to feel the guilt.”

There was a compartment with a flint and even some wool as kindling, but in a pinch any Dwarf would use his own hair to get a fire started. There were even tweezers in case he needed to remove a splinter.

Finally, into one inside seam were stitched rows of silver and gold thread. From Nori’s own boots he demonstrated, pulling out an inch and cutting it with a knife. In dire straits a merchant will accept that for a loaf of bread.

“The collar of each boot holds a small reservoir containing a resin from the east. It could be used to hold together deep wounds. The boots are slightly heavier because of it, but in the worst of circumstances it will give you more time to get to a healer, and I pray that you never need it to use it,” Nori said as he showed him the opening. 

When Gimli asked how long they had taken to make, Nori said that day the Black Rider first came to Erebor, he started the commission, knowing then that Gimli might be amongst those sent to find an answer. I have made the same for Glóin as I knew the stubborn bastard would insist on going with you. You both have a skeleton key in the sole, in case you get locked in somewhere." Nori winked. "It will probably work only on the most basic of locks, but reassurance is a feeling not to be dismissed."

Nori continued. “I had a last-minute adjustment made.” He pulled back a flap at the top of the boot. “Give me the coin.”

Gimli had taken to turning it in his fingers, a hard reminder to himself not to be so gullible. Gimli took it from his pocket and handed it to Nori. It slotted in perfectly.

Nori also gave him a padded shirt for under his armour. Again, there were compartments sewn in with coins. There were pouches for cram and a waterskin was sewn in, with a tube built-in to suck up the small amount of liquid. “If you are in a situation where your water skin, or pack is lost that should not mean the end of you. Change the water when you can do so unobserved, that it does not grow brackish.”

He showed him a small compartment to the side, with a few pieces of parchment and a pen, with a small amount of ink already inside. They both thought of Ori and Nori’s eyes were suspiciously damp.

Clearing his throat, Nori continued. “Some salve is stowed in the undercoat. Try not to interfere with any female Men on your travels. They are as protective of women as they say we Dwarves are of gold. Do not proposition any Men of Gondor either. You have enough problems as it is. No need to go chasing more. If you do have a tumble, first check the equipment looks healthy. If you get burning after you piss, then mix some of this”, – he handed over a pouch – “with water and drink it for a sennight. It is also good for if a wound becomes infected.”

Nori held Gimli for a long minute. Gimli thought he heard him whisper 'you're a good lad.' Nori gave him a final squeeze, then pushed him away. ”Enough of that. I’ve got things to be doing.”

Gimli watched Nori as he walked away, then wiped his eyes and finalised his preparations for the journey ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amad - Khudzul (dwarf language) - mother
> 
> 'Adad - Khudzul (dwarf language) - father
> 
> Nori’s salve/ointment - the idea is from Thorinsmut’s Dwalin/Nori stories.
> 
> Cram was a biscuit-like substance made by the Men of Lake-town and Dale, and shared by them with the Dwarves of Erebor. It was said to be nutritious, and was used as sustenance on long journeys, as for example by Bilbo Baggins and the Dwarves on the last stage of their quest. When Gimli tasted lembas, he remembered cram.
> 
> It was made from tightly pressed flour or meal. Basic cram like this was a flavourless, uninspiring food, but sometimes milk or honey would be added to make it a little more palatable. - Description from tolkeingateway.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta Aylwyyn228. Thanks also to everyone reading and for the lovely comments!
> 
> The next update will be on Saturday.

As he rode away from the stable, Legolas rolled the name in his mouth, "Gimli.” It was strange and exotic. He realised he had not shared his own name. He considered turning back but, as he thought about it he decided that perhaps that was for the best. He did not know how old this Dwarf was. He knew Dwarves lived longer than Men, but not by how much. He did not know when they reached their majority either. Men reached their majority at twenty and this Dwarf said he was seventy-five years past majority. He used his fingers. So, Gimli was close to a hundred years old, at least. 

Legolas did not wish to see him bent and withered. He would keep the night they shared as a tiny flame in his heart. He did not want to be confronted by the reality of the Dwarf’s mortality and death. He did not want to return to Dale in say, twenty years, and see a Dwarf called ‘Gimli’ frail and old. Perhaps he would not recognise him as time wrought its changes. Without a name, the Dwarf would not be able to call out ‘Legolas!’. The old Dwarf then could be anyone. Legolas would not have that certainty, that loss.

As Legolas rode, he enjoyed the wind against his hair and the bright morning reflected his joy. The skies were blue and the warmth of the day wrapped around him. Once again, he spent the night in the secluded hollow and his reverie took him back to Gimli’s strong arms. 

The next day he approached the forest before the afternoon shadows lengthened. He climbed down the banks of the River Running and took a few minutes to drink, then to bathe. In the cold water he ran his hands over his body and he felt more alive than ever before. As an afterthought, Legolas rinsed his shirt and leggings in the cold water and wrung them out to wear damp. They would be dry again by the time he reached home and the tell-tale musk was now gone. He traced his fingers over his lips and smiled. _Gimli._

Upon Legolas’ return to the palace, there was uproar. His father held him and wept silently. Thranduil’s glamour faded and for the first time since his naneth had sailed, Legolas saw the pale, milky eye.

His brother Lastedir held Legolas’ hand and would not let go.

His eldest brother, Opherion, looked furious. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Dale,” Legolas said, barely above a whisper.

“So, not only did you choose to disobey father, but you didn’t even have the courtesy to leave a message.”

Legolas’ eyes darted to the far end of the throne room, towards the guard, Gilron, with whom he had left the message. Legolas remained silent, as he did not want to say anything to get Gilron into trouble.

His brother followed his gaze, and continued his tirade. “Oh, we got your _‘message’_ ’I’ll be back soon! Don’t worry!’. Rest assured that this one has been suitably punished for failing to stop you.”

Legolas winced.

“But you couldn’t even leave your own note with more detail, in your own hand. Oh, that’s right, baby Lele refuses to learn to write.”

Shame washed over Legolas. He had not intended to entangle Gilron into his disobedience. 

He had not intended to upset everyone like this. 

And his brother’s words pierced him. The shouting was a dull roar in the background as Legolas slipped into his thoughts. Legolas had never learned his letters. He had tried, but had not seen the use of it. All of the best stories were in songs, and he knew them all. He never had anyone with whom he could exchange correspondence, as no one travelled into or out of the forest. No one apart from Mithrandir, and Legolas could admit he was more than a little afraid of him, with his eyes like thunder and the faint brewing of a storm around him. Legolas liked him well enough, but not enough to go through the pain of learning to compose letters to him. There was always someone with Legolas, so that if for some reason something needed to be read, they would read it out loud to him.

Legolas had managed to learn the shapes of the Westron and Sindarin numbers, but then lessons had become too taxing. He knew the runes for his own name, and thus incidentally the runes for ‘green’ and ‘leaf’ but that was about it. 

When he sat with the tutor, with the runes traced on the parchment before him, they seemed to swim and dart away like little fish, just as he tried to grasp them. He had tried, truly, but the frustration would lead to tears and anger. On more than one occasion he had torn up the parchment in exasperation. 

He remembered how he would rather abandon his lessons to play among the creatures in the forest. His tutors would not force him, and they knew that if they started sessions on how to read the different runes, Legolas would just run away to the tallest tree he could find and refuse to come down.

His father had still been distraught about his mother’s departure and so had not insisted on his attending his classes. For years, Thranduil had sat in a darkened room, smelling of wine. Sometimes he would call for Legolas and hold him. He would stroke Legolas’ hair and mutter ‘like your naneth’s’ and would sometimes fall asleep saying, ‘I should have been there’, ‘I should not have let her go alone’. During those years, matters of state had been handled by advisers and Legolas’ older brothers. 

His brothers had tried to coax him into learning the runes, but with the parchment before them, Legolas would charm them into drawing something for him, or he would dip his finger into the ink and dab their noses with a black splodge. ‘We are little foxes now!’ He would call. ‘Opherion must catch us!’ and thus would start a game of chase.

On the occasions where he could not avoid the lesson, it was ultimately an exercise in frustration for all involved. 

So, his tutors would read him the histories and his lessons would be discussions. By the time the darkness pressed in such that all were needed on patrols, no one bothered him about reading anymore. Besides, Legolas could read what was important. He could read the trails of the forest, and he could read the messages in the knots they left each other.

"Are you even listening?" Opherion fumed.

Legolas nodded and heard how search parties had been sent around the forest for him, taking people away from Spider patrols. No one had even dreamed he would dare stray as far as Dale. They feared he had been eaten by a Sider. Father had already slipped back into his cups by the second night.

Legolas hung his head, ashamed at the upset, but he had no regrets.

***

Legolas stared at Gilron’s broken body.

***

When the Man, Estel, had first brought the creature to them, the stink of it had assailed his senses and Legolas had been glad to be ordered to stay away from it. In its presence the stench clung, greasy and cloying on Legolas’ own skin. It cursed and spluttered, vile and creeping. 

Gollum was its name. 

Thranduil’s icy rage at the news of Legolas’ absconding had felt like censure enough to Gilron, but in addition, he had been ordered to guard the creature in the dungeons as punishment for failing to stop Legolas from leaving. At Opherion’ insistence, upon his return, Legolas had also been assigned to guard duty over the creature. Partly, this was as punishment, but partly because ‘it was high time he learnt some responsibility’.

In horrified fascination, Legolas would watch it. It would eat only raw fish and would squat hunched on the ground, devouring every part of the fish, including the guts and scales. It was truly revolting to witness.

Legolas had always taken seriously his assignments on patrol, but it had never felt like a duty to him. Legolas delighted in being outside the palace, in following the trail and he relished the camaraderie of the hunt as they followed trails and rooted out Spider nests. Legolas had seen injuries to his companions, and knew that in other groups some had been killed - he knew it was not a game - but patrols were not a hardship to him and his brother was right in that this new duty would be a true punishment.

Day after day, Legolas had sat guarding Gollum in the dungeons, almost as much a captive as the creature. Its plaintive cries would reach through the bars, and listening to the creature calling out ‘outside!’ ‘sky!’ had moved Legolas to pity. Perhaps it was also a selfish desire for a reprieve for himself and a chance to be among familiar trees.

Legolas was not foolish enough to release it. He wished only for it to have a respite of a few hours and to allow it to feel the wind on its face, as any creature on Arda deserved. Legolas made the decision to let Gollum out of the dank cell for the morning and asked Gilron to accompany him. 

Afterwards, Legolas could not clearly recall what had happened. He remembered that as they watched the creature playing with stones and tapping them together, he had heard Orcs approaching. The help Legolas had whistled for had arrived quickly and the skirmish was soon over. Legolas gave chase, but after a few minutes of venturing deeper into the forest after stragglers, he decided to turn back, leaving them to the others.

Returning to the tree where Gilron had waited with the creature, Legolas had found only Gilron’s crumpled form on the ground.

Gilron’s neck had marks, which though he had never seen before, Legolas knew them to be those of strangulation. A heavy weight of sorrow pressed down on Legolas. Gilron’s fëa had left his body and the creature was nowhere to be seen. 

The creature had escaped. 

Legolas stared at Gilron’s broken body, and wept bitter tears.

He had failed.

He had failed as a prince in his duty to safeguard his people. 

He had been given the opportunity to be responsible and he had been found wanting. Legolas could barely face Galion’s red rimmed eyes, in mourning for his nephew.

With eyes downcast, Legolas had reported the loss to his lord king. His father sat upon his throne and when he had called ‘ _ion-nin’_ , my son, Thranduil’s outstretched hand had barely trembled. Thranduil had simply placed a hand on his shoulder and cupped Legolas’ chin with the other hand, as if to see for himself that he was well. 

The news of the loss of the creature would need to be sent to Elrond. Thranduil had already readied a messenger falcon when Legolas had stopped him. 

Legolas would deliver this message himself.

It was not the Woodland Realm which had failed in its duty to secure the prisoner, but Legolas himself who had failed. A part of Legolas worried that his desire to deliver the message in person was due to a craven wish to flee from Galion’s reproachful eyes. But Legolas knew it was time for him to take responsibility. He would face the consequences of his actions. Honour demanded that he go himself with news of the escape. 

Thranduil refused.

Legolas begged. 

He played on every advantage he knew. He reminded his father of how the Spiders had grown over the years. Larger than a horse some were now. Would it not be good for him to have some respite from Mirkwood and from the Shadow, safer even? At these points he could see his father wavering, then Thranduil’s eyes grew hard again and he left the throne room to retire to his own quarters. His brothers followed Thranduil and Legolas could hear raised voices.

The next morning he slipped from reverie to the news that, albeit with great reluctance, Thranduil had agreed to his taking a message to Lord Elrond; with the proviso that his brother Lastedir was to accompany him and that they both return as soon as the message was delivered. Legolas wondered if Thranduil feared that without permission to go Legolas would simply abscond and go anyway, alone. Legolas was too dutiful to do so, but his visit to Dale, and breaking his father’s orders against travelling alone, was out of character and thus it was not an unreasonable fear. Again, shame pulsed through Legolas.

Perhaps Thranduil understood better than Legolas had previously thought. Perhaps he saw how this Mirkwood, for that is what it truly was now, was becoming a cage, against the bars of which Legolas would fling himself until he was broken. To keep him here, would Thranduil eventually have to lock him in the very dungeons he had so lately guarded? Thranduil knew that to keep Legolas grasped tight would be to crush and bruise his spirit like a blossom trampled underfoot. His father knew he must be allowed to be free.

As Legolas rode out of the forest with Lastedir, his brother shared the reasoning which had permitted him to ride to Imladris. Thranduil had admitted the truth of Legolas’ own argument that he needed to take responsibility. As a prince, his honour meant much and it was right to uphold it. Father had acknowledged that he also felt some relief at the idea of Legolas being away from the Spiders and the Shadow for a time. But there were other reasons which had surprised Legolas.

Lastedir confessed that their father had said he could feel the time of the Elves coming to an end. Lastedir also acknowledged that Legolas had lived a sheltered and restricted life, rarely leaving the forest and never having travelled further afield than Dale and having fought in one battle, outside Erebor. 

Although his father held to the truth that he had been forced to make certain choices, he was conscious of Legolas’ having been coddled, and he felt a prince of his standing should broaden his horizons and at least see some of the world while it was still possible to do so. In addition, and despite his own feelings about Elrond Peredhel, Thranduil knew it was important that his sons meet the Noldor and observe another Elven realm. His father had bowed to persuasion and permitted the journey. 

Fear and excitement had mingled in Legolas as they set off with their retinue.

Now, as they approached Imladris, Legolas felt true dread clench in his stomach. He had always looked forward to the day he would be able to travel, but the circumstances surrounding this journey dampened all his joy at the new sights and sounds. He felt exposed under these clear skies, without a canopy of trees keeping him safe under its embrace. All the trees here were strangers and when they sought his attention it was out of curiosity, not with the gentle affection he was used to from the trees who had loved him since he was born. How would his news be received? What would be the punishment, and what would be the political impact on relations between his Father’s and Elrond’s realm? Would they move from tense distance to outright hostility? Would the penance required be too heavy to bear?

As they journeyed, his brother had tried to remind him of the histories of the kingdoms around them. Legolas had been surprised to discover that the scruffy Estel was supposedly Isildur’s heir. Aragorn, he was called among Men. Legolas wondered if Lastedir would permit them to visit a Mannish kingdom on their way back. Perhaps Estel the Man would be in one of those Mannish places and would remember Legolas. He may even be in Imladris. Then the weight of his failure bore down on Legolas again, and he changed his mind. He hoped not to encounter Estel on their journey. Legolas could not bear to have to tell him that the creature Estel had travelled with, such a long and weary way, all the way from the Dead Marshes, had been set loose due to Legolas’ fault.

Thranduil had sent a messenger falcon to Elrond informing him his sons would be visiting Imladris, but Legolas and Lastedir were disconcerted to find a gathering of the free peoples of Arda had already convened when they arrived. Had Elrond intended to exclude Thranduil’s people, once again? Was this meeting another attempt at preventing Thranduil’s realm from sharing in information and participating in decision making? Recalling his father’s words of advice about not pandering to Elrond, Legolas realised it was more likely that Thranduil _had_ received a summons to the council but had initially chosen to ignore it. Sending representatives to this council was incidental to the delivery of the message of Gollum’s loss. 

They had time only for a quick wash and to change out of travelling clothes before being led to the gathering. Legolas felt awestruck at the splendour of Imladris and shrank behind his brother who walked with the steward, discussing arrangements to enable their quick departure. Lastedir had inherited some of his father’s distrust of Imladris and was also worried about the fulfilment of his duties as captain in his absence. He clearly could not wait to leave. As they drew nearer to the assembly Lastedir and the steward paused, confirming details. As his eyes swept over the crowd, Legolas recalled the prime motivation in his being here; his honour. He did not wait for his brother. Legolas drew back his shoulders and resolved to bear himself as Thranduilion as he approached the assembly. 

Then he recognised a familiar figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I got a little carried away with the notes!
> 
> * Gilron – Sindarin meaning = Star tree – I have written him as Galion the butler’s nephew
> 
> * The idea of reading messages in knots is from Sound Beneath Sound by Dorinda
> 
> * Fëa, plural fëar = Quenya term for "soul" - tolkiengateway.net
> 
> * Rivendell is also known as the ‘Last Homely House’ and in Sindarin is called ‘Imladris’.
> 
> * You may have noticed the slight hat tip to 'A Long and Weary Way' by Canafinwe - it is one of my favourite fics.
> 
> * I am aware that some people can not read for a number of reasons including dyslexia and various learning disabilities. Some have not had the opportunity to learn, even in countries with taxpayer funded (free) public education systems. Inability to read without a cause like dyslexia or learning disability can happen for various reasons including an unstable home life and being promoted through grades despite not having grasped that year’s curriculum. These people are not stupid and they are not lazy.  
> With Legolas, I would say there is some degree of dyslexia, plus he just did not want to, and no one forced him to. Since that was due to the circumstances surrounding the loss of his mother, perhaps that comes under ‘unstable home life’. I have only general knowledge of dyslexia and do not mean to be insensitive or inaccurate in this portrayal. Please let me know if I get it wrong.
> 
> * Elrond Peredhil - From Lotr.fandom.net: The Half-elven, or Peredhil, were people of Middle-earth, the name of whom was primarily applied to Elrond and Elros in the Second and Third Age, but also to Eärendil and his wife Elwing before them. They were called so because of their mixed Edain (Human) and Eldarin (Elven) blood. At the end of the First Age, they were given a choice to be Elven and immortal, or to be of the race of Men and accept the Gift of Men which is death.
> 
> Others considered Half-elven were Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir, and his daughter Arwen Undómiel. They, like the other Half-elven before them, were given the choice of mortality.
> 
> * When Men come of age - There are many parallels to Medieval Europe in LOTR and I remember watching a documentary saying it was a misconception that medieval people married really young. It was closer to 19-20 for women iirc. It was only really nobles who did child bride shenanigans to ensure she was ‘still pure’ for dynasty building reasons.)
> 
> My clever beta Aylwyyn228 added the following notes which I found very interesting:  
> All my research on demography, (mostly confined to lower class in the 19th century, but there's no real evidence that it was ever any different), is that people married for the first time in their twenties, and not even particularly early twenties. People, for the most part, have always been the same, and people want to feel settled and secure and suitably grown up before they marry!
> 
> Also, I don't know if this was mentioned in your documentary, but even aristocracy in the medieval period, didn't expect to consummate very early marriages. Even if a girl was married at 13, it was expected that her older husband would wait a few years before they actually slept together. (It's not good for the babies, to have them very young). In cases where it did happen, such as Margaret Beaufort, who was pregnant at 12, it was considered unseemly by society (and the birth was so traumatic that it actually prevented her ever getting pregnant again).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***UPDATE 22nd August 2020***  
> Unfortunately I will not be updating for a little while due to real world issues, as well as wanting to tie together a few threads in the story. I will try not to keep you waiting for too long and I thank you in advance for your patience.
> 
> Thanks to all the lovely people who are reading, I really appreciate it!
> 
> If you feel comfortable leaving a comment, please do so: I love hearing your feedback!
> 
> Reminder: Tharkûn = Mithrandir = Gandalf. Same guy, different names.
> 
> I was watching Thor and I was getting Gimli vibes from Volstagg the Valiant. If you want, check it out! [Link](https://youtu.be/iNtoN6eVKv0?t=190) \- not a 100% copy paste of Gimli, of course (it gets annoying after 4.00 (the comic-relief part)so I suggest stopping the video there!).
> 
> Aylwyyn228 = Awesome beta. All remaining errors are my own.

Their journey from Erebor had been the best kind of journey; uneventful. Glóin was eager to leave Rivendell as soon as the objective of their coming had been met, but it was proving to be less straightforward than they had hoped. Lord Elrond delayed discussions on the matter of the Black Rider, insisting they could address the issue before a Council of the Free Peoples of Arda, which was due to convene in the coming days. They awaited only the final delegates, who were said to still be en route.

Tempers in the Dwarven party grew frayed, but the seemingly interminable wait was finally over and the hour for the Council to begin was upon them. The representatives assembled and drifted towards the meeting area.

Gimli turned his head and felt as if he had been struck full in the face with an iron gauntlet. As the gathering prepared to begin, Gimli had caught sight of the Elf - _that Elf_ \- and it had had the nerve to smile at him. _Like sunshine on the water_. As if he could be taken in twice by the same ruse.

Was Gimli dreaming? Was the Elf really here? What was it doing here? Had it followed him from Erebor? They had taken the longer route, avoiding Mirkwood, so that was unlikely. Gimli’s bones still rattled from the punishing pace at which they had ridden the ponies to compensate for the extra distance they needed to cover. Gimli had not seen the Elf at the communal meals in the days leading up to the meeting. Had it perhaps been ashamed to face him? No, more likely biding its time to suit its nefarious purposes.

“That’s him,” Gimli managed to whisper to his father. “The Elf from Dale.”

The Elf called out “Gimli!” and even had the audacity to reach forward as if to embrace him.

Ah! The sight of him made a thrill of fear course through him. He could not trust this Elf, but a part of him could not help but feel drawn to him. His body began to respond to the familiar, fresh scent.

As Gimli stood still in shock, Glóin powered forward and blocked the Elf. In the bustling crowd of people being led to their seats no one was paying attention to them, but still Glóin lowered his voice and between gritted teeth he spoke. “The fuck, yer think yer doin’ Elf? Do you mean to shame him before all these people?” Glóin choked out the words. “You may have paid him once, but he’s not your whore. Fuck off!”

The Elf stepped back with shock on his face, his features in a perfect simulation of confusion. “Whore?”

Glóin immediately fell into a battle stance. “Call him a whore again, and you’ll be meeting the business-end of my claymore.”

The Elf stumbled back, and in a daze, Gimli found himself being led by his father to their seats.

Glóin growled, “I told you no good would come of it.”

The names of the delegates were announced. Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm, son of Thranduil. Now Gimli knew his name. Legolas. _Prince_ Legolas, _son of Thranduil._

_Fuck._

At that hated name, Thranduil, Glóin stood up.

Immediately, as if he had anticipated Glóin’s reaction, Tharkûn pointed his staff at him and his eyes blazed. No longer a kindly old Wizard, Tharkûn silently dared Glóin to state an objection. Glóin sat back down without a word.

Gimli’s own legs would not have borne him to stand, and his throat was tight; he could not have spoken even if he could untangle words to utter.

The gathering had been delayed to begin on the day of this prince Legolas’ arrival that he might deliver a message to all present. So, the Elf had not followed him and had not been skulking for days in Rivendell. Gimli forced his mind to turn to the matters at hand and not vex himself with thoughts of this treacherous Elf.

As they sat in council, looking at the ring, Gimli thought to himself. _Maybe if Gimli himself were Master of the Ring, the Elf would be sorry for having made a laughingstock of him. With the Ring he could show they were not Naugrim, not stunted, not beneath the other peoples. He could lead his people to claim the respect they deserved. All would bow before the Khazad._

No. Gimli shook the thought from his head. No. The dangers of trying to use the Ring had been spelled out. If Tharkûn and Lord Elrond and this Aragorn were all lying and the Ring could in fact be safely wielded, such a council would not have been convened. If the intention was to merely snatch up the Ring for themselves, they had already had many opportunities to do so.

Perhaps a _Dwarf_ could wield it, Gimli pondered; their kings of old had not become wraiths like the kings of Men. Perhaps it was only that Elves did not wish to see such power in the hands of the Dwarves - but Gimli knew that to be a dangerous line of thought. If the solution was for a Dwarf lord to wield it, and could do so without corruption, then Tharkûn, who had long been a friend to the Dwarves, would not have withheld that remedy if it meant the defeat of evil. Indeed, the hobbits had shown resistance to its malign power and they had not been encouraged to use it against Sauron. Surely that was not simply sourness at a potential loss of pre-eminence of the Elves or Men.

From conversations here in Rivendell he had been led to understand that Elves were to be leaving Middle-earth, and thus such politics would be beyond their interest in any case. Swift may day of their departure be, prayed Gimli.

Those with more knowledge of such things than himself said that the Ring was dangerous and should be destroyed and Gimli chose to believe them.

He believed that this Ring indeed must be destroyed, not because he blindly followed authority, but because the truth of it was clear. In the days in Rivendell waiting for the council to begin, Tharkûn had spoken of the old histories; of Melkor and of Sauron. Now Gimli knew why. Gimli could feel a sense of wrongness emanating from the thing. It needed to be destroyed.

Action was needed, not endless Elven discussion.

“What are we waiting for!”

*

As he picked himself up after being flung back by his unsuccessful attempt to destroy the ring, Gimli shook his head. He felt anguish mingled with astonishment that his axe, a mithril tipped blade! - a gift from Thorin - had been shattered. His ears were still ringing but he could hear well enough that it seemed that the Elf was manoeuvring to volunteer itself to travel with the Ring to Mordor. That deceitful creature with the Ring of Power! Not while he yet drew breath.

“I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!”

Gimli could still not bear to look the Elf in the eye, but he would make sure it knew that he was no longer vulnerable to its machinations.

“Never trust an Elf!” he bellowed, with the full force of his lungs.

The civilised council descended into a rabble, barely holding back from blows.

“Stone-hearted!” spat prince Legolas. After a slight hesitation he pursed his lips, but the rest of the epithet hung unspoken in the air, _naug_. The phrase was ‘stone-hearted naugrim, hard-hearted naugs’.

Glóin looked ready to buffet both sons of Thranduil. The Elves of Rivendell, the Men present, even Tharkûn; all joined in the fray.

Only the small hobbit’s courage had the power to silence the bickering and reassert focus on the matter at hand.

The Elf pledged to travel with the hobbit.

No. Gimli would not let the ward of Bilbo Baggins travel unprotected, in the company of an Elf. Bilbo Baggins was one of the Company, and the Company was family. Gimli was honour-bound to pledge his axe in defence of Frodo. Gimli would accompany him, if only to save him from the treachery of Elves.

After the will of the council had been agreed, Gimli had returned directly to the suite of rooms he shared with Glóin and their party. Gimli sat on his bed and pressed his hands to his mouth.

The magnitude of his pledge became more and more real to him. Also solidifying was the realisation he would be in company with that Elf for countless weeks. The same ice-cold feeling washed over him as when he had found the coin. He had thought they had shared something genuine, but had been betrayed. Now here the Elf was again, playing games and attempting once more to manipulate.

Gimli soothed himself. He was a weapons-Master, he was of the line of Durin, he was the son of a Hero of Erebor. He was a Dwarf, and Dwarves endured. He would endure this.

He had been called ‘naug’ before. He had been hurt before. He had been betrayed before. Gimli was not one for foolish tears.

In the courtyard below his bedroom he could hear the low chatter of conversation. The birdlike sounds of the Elvish language were jarring and so dissimilar to the solid Westron sounds he had grown up with. Outside, and around him everything was normal. Ordinary. He needed to pull himself together.

He roughly wiped at his face and went to sit with Glóin in his part of the suite. Even in company, his thoughts continued to stray towards the Elf, and he played with the coin in his pocket. Every now and then, Glóin would go to the door of their rooms to make sure they had not been locked in.

The time he had remaining with Glóin before the nine of them set out was short. Gimli wished to make the most of it, but his thoughts kept straying.

Now Gimli knew his name. _Legolas._ He could not get it out of his mind.

*

Since arriving in Rivendell, in the days before the council, they had made several visits to Bilbo. He would often be with Frodo and the other hobbits and Gimli always felt lighter after calling on them.

After the Council meeting, Gimli had remained sequestered in their rooms for two full days, not even emerging for meals. Glóin himself had brought Gimli plates from the dining hall. Once, Glóin even managed to tease out a smile when he carried into their suite an entire serving tray of venison.

Twice the Elf knocked on the second day, but Gimli would not engage. Nevertheless, despite no words being exchanged, the sight of Legolas brought down Gimli’s mood for the rest of the day.

Glóin had tried unsuccessfully to find diversions for him, but Gimli would not engage. Glóin had visited Bilbo several times without Gimli but today he insisted that Gimli accompany him.

Glóin hoped that some of the younger hobbits would be in Bilbo’s suite and bolster his spirits. The first time they had visited, before the Council, the youngest two hobbits were very forthright and spoke without dissembling, which was a refreshing contrast to Elvish lies.

Bilbo had waxed lyrical about the hospitality of Rivendell.“The Last Homely House has earned its sobriquet, indeed it has!”

He recited; breakfast, second-breakfast, elvenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner and supper. “They have learned all the meals!” he enthused. Bilbo was a traditionalist in that he did not count brunch or midnight snacks as official meals, as their irregularity was a sign of unBaggins-like disorder. He said at his age he needed a full-night’s sleep, so midnight snacks should not form part of the count. He would eat one or two meals in the communal dining area but the rest were brought directly to him as he ‘no longer had the energy to go gallivanting up and down.’

By the third afternoon, Gimli relented after conceding that sitting alone in their suite would not serve him, and he agreed to join Glóin once more on the afternoon visits.

Knowing the Elf was in the vicinity, Gimli made sure to don full armour even when in the suite. He knew the Elf was too canny to launch a direct attack, however he preferred to have a protective layer on. Even Glóin looked at him askance as he donned his helm, but said nothing, glad Gimli was venturing forth and not wanting to say anything which could cause Gimli to shut himself in again.

As they made their way to Bilbo’s rooms, the sweeping corridors of Rivendell gave way to a cosy nook. Today Bilbo was alone. The hobbit-sized furniture in the solarium meant that for the first time in days, Gimli’s legs were not swinging as he sat.

Glóin sniffed suspiciously at the refreshments brought to them. During his time in Rivendell he would eat only at the communal tables. Each day he would vary where he sat, and sometimes at the last minute, would swop his plate with that of an exasperated Elf. They would only sigh in annoyance, and it seemed that they had been briefed not to escalate such encounters.

Even here with Bilbo, Glóin would not eat the refreshments which had been set out for them and would eat only some cram from his pocket, and sipped at water from his own battered travelling waterskin. Today Gimli had no appetite, so Bilbo polished off the plate of tea-cakes single-handedly then sat back contentedly.

In a courteous gesture, Gimli prepared both his own and Bilbo’s pipes, but looking at the shaking hands, he was doubtful as to whether the frail hobbit, bundled in a blanket, would have managed to fill the pipe himself without spilling most of the pipeweed. The spice and tang of the smoke danced in the air.

“Old Toby.” Bilbo sighed in appreciation. “The best.”

“Aye,” Glóin agreed.

Gimli had already sat through several iterations of old stories and reminiscences of deeds heroic enough to need no embellishment. Gimli had submitted to having his cheek squeezed by Bilbo and being told what a fine lad he’d grown into. They talked and they sang, but some subjects were skirted by mutual, silent agreement. Thorin. Oin, Ori, Balin.

Even though they were surrounded by them in Rivendell, Bilbo even went along with Glóin’s unspoken interdict on mentioning Elves directly.

Today it was only Bilbo, Glóin and Gimli and into the companionable silence the hobbit now spoke. A look on Bilbo’s face determined his Tookish side was now in the ascendance. “It’s good to see all the old faces. You, Glóin.” He puffed a ring of smoke. “Gandalf. Why, at second-breakfast I saw Prince Legolas. It’s just like old times.”

An angry flush crept up Gimli’s neck.

After the wheezing subsided, and Glóin’s back had been patted, his glass of water refilled, Glóin glared at the hobbit. “What do you mean, ‘like old times’?”

Gimli waited for the rant to begin, but Glóin remained silent. He knew Bilbo did not tolerate what he called ‘rumpus’ and Gimli was silently impressed that he could impose restraint on Glóin in this matter.

At the same time, dread crawled up Gimli’s back. Why was Bilbo mentioning the Elf? Gimli knew Glóin had not shared the encounter in Dale with any outside Erebor. Gimli was also confident that even if they knew, the group they had travelled with from Erebor would not have spread such gossip. Had the Elf been telling tales?

Glóin puffed away angrily and the silence stretched.

The silence grew tighter.

Bilbo continued conversationally, as if discussing which sandwich-fillings he preferred at afternoon-tea. “Just think. If he had not helped us, you could still be in his father’s dungeons.”

Was the hobbit trying to send Glóin to a healer? A vein was now prominent on Glóin’s forehead.

“What are you talking about, ‘helped us’?” Glóin asked, with a mulish look.

Bilbo looked genuinely bewildered. “Truly, do you not recognise him?” At Glóin’s shrug of the shoulders, Bilbo exclaimed, “he is the one who helped free us! I suppose, being in a barrel you did not see much, but surely you remember him.”

“They all look the same to me,” was Glóin’s response.

“In that case, if you truly did not recognise him, it is fair to point out that he was also among the Elves to first capture us in the forest, and he was the one who ...insulted your locket.”

Glóin growled. Low in his throat.

Gimli had heard the story countless times. So his Legolas, prince Legolas, son of Thranduil - this was the same Elf who had insulted his mother and called Gimli’s portrait that of a ‘Goblin Mutant’, further insulting his mother by the insinuation of Gimli’s having Goblin parentage. More cold fury washed over Gimli. The thrum of his own heartbeat boomed in his ears. In Dale had the Elf in fact known his identity from the beginning, recognising him from the locket?

So, is that how he had viewed Gimli when they had been together? As a Goblin Mutant? Was it all a perverse joke to the Elf? Well, Gimli could only blame himself. Dwarves and Elves kept apart for a reason, now he knew why, firsthand. Elves were false, deceitful and thought only of their own gain.

The playful look on Bilbo’s face faded at the stony visages of the Dwarves. “I - I did not mean to bring this up to cause you pain.” Bilbo looked at both of them. “I mentioned the locket not to stir up trouble, but because I did not want Gimli to be ruminating over such things while travelling with prince Legolas. I wanted him to vent any frustration here, with me - not on the road. Truly, I thought you had recognised him Glóin.” Again Bilbo paused as if thinking of the best way to proceed. “I also bring this up now, because your son is here with you, Glóin, and I thought maybe he would help you see sense. Old friend, this bitterness is a burden you must lay down. I myself have already settled my affairs. Glóin, you may still have a few years tucked away in your back pocket, but I’m sure you would agree that you and I are both closer to the end of our journey on Arda than to the start of it.”

Glóin could only nod.

“Well, then. We never had the chance to thank prince Legolas for his help in our escape from the Dungeons. Even if I had managed the trap-door on my own, which I doubt I could have, his intercepting the Orc attack while we were practically sitting ducks, saved our lives.”

What was Bilbo playing at? Gimli did not interrupt, and he would not have had the words  
even had he so desired.

The hobbit patted their knees in turn. The thin skin on his hands showed the veins and the wrinkles made it look like a rumpled glove. “Gimli, Glóin, I have thanked him on your behalf for his part in our escape. Your fine son will be journeying with him, and it is best to set out on a clean slate, no hard feelings. Leave the bitterness of the dungeons behind. Thranduil was ungenerous in his imprisonment, but his son reversed that action, and fought to defend us, both as we escaped, and I hear he fought in the Battle.” The Battle was another topic to be avoided, given the lives it had claimed. The name Thorin thrummed, unspoken in the air.

For Bilbo to mention the Battle as a point in Legolas’ favour showed how important this reconciliation was to him. It was a shame Bilbo was wasting his time.

Gimli also felt relief that it appeared that Bilbo was not aware of the other connection between himself and Legolas.

Perhaps buoyed by the same relief, Glóin found his voice. “’Tis bad enough that an Elf must travel with them. The place is crawling with Elves and they had to pick _that_ one to send. A son of Thranduil!” It appeared that his positive actions in the past were not enough to tip the scales in his favour in the court of Glóin’s opinion.

It sounded as if Glóin was beginning to build up momentum once again, but Bilbo interrupted before he could gain traction. “This was Elrond’s council. In Rivendell, Glóin. As soon as you realized there would be a journey, you knew full well that an Elf was always going to be part of the Fellowship. Elrond himself has a realm to rule and can’t be traipsing through the wilds.”

Glóin mused, “what about that tall, golden-haired one. Couldn’t he have been sent?”

A raised eyebrow met that. Even Gimli could see the place was filled with tall, golden-haired Elves.

Glóin was undeterred. “The one most golden of them all, muscles for a change. Prancing around more’n all the others.”

“Ah, you mean Glorfindel.”

Had Bilbo remained in Erebor, as he had been welcome to, Balin had suggested the role of an advisor to king Dain. Bilbo’s navigation of Shire intrigues and politics had been training enough for navigating the affairs of any kingdom. Bilbo set forth his analysis of the current situation.

“Dearie me! Could you imagine the arguments if Elrond had sent Glorfindel? Amusing as he is, you can see for yourself that Glorfindel’s a windbag. That Man, Boromir, and Aragorn are already sniffing at each other and circling, then we all know what Gandalf’s like. What would happen if they threw into that bag of cats an Elf who is used to being in charge? At least from what I saw, this prince Legolas doesn’t puff himself up and give himself airs.” Bilbo looked thoughtful. “In fact, to me he seemed very mild mannered.”

Gimli recalled that little smile. How his lips had looked, kiss-reddened. Those guileless eyes. Quickly he collected himself. Far from ‘guileless’.

Bilbo continued, listing points on his fingers as he spoke. “Legolas is a prince and thus has the status to represent the Elves in this journey. He is a well-trained fighter. Dealing with Mirkwood spiders regularly means he is the companion you would wish for, rather than one of these Rivendell Elves, spending all day playing the harp or weaving tapestries. No. It must be a Mirkwood Elf. They are the best fighters, Elrond says. His brother has already returned to Mirkwood and no one in their escort had the status to be considered, and there is no time to send for a different Mirkwood Elf.” Bilbo began to ramble. “I have certainly not forgotten the spiders of Mirkwood. Ah yes.” He talked for a few more minutes about the Company, then Bilbo picked up his thread again. “You need someone who can fight, but adding another martial type to the group would only increase the disharmony. Prince Legolas arrived at just the right time.”

Glóin was still not persuaded. “What of Elrond’s own children? Are they as useless as your typical Elf?”

Bilbo found his second wind at the chance of more gossip and shrugged the blanket from his shoulders and leaned forward. “Far from it, his twin sons have helped keep the Shire safe these many years, I found that out only recently. However, they have never spent a day apart, so to send one is to send both. As Gandalf said, stealth is what will save us, not a large party clattering across Middle-earth. And if we send two elves, then we will have to send two dwarves.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Glóin snapped, but Gimli could see that Glóin had conceded that point.

Gimli was starting to feel desperate. “What of the lass? Could Lord Elrond not send his daughter instead?” Dwarves did not judge one’s fighting skills based on what one had in one’s trousers.

The light of gossip filled Bibo’s eyes and he seemed revitalised as he spoke in a low confidential tone. “You didn’t hear this from me, and you’re not to repeat it, but Elrond’s daughter and Aragorn have an understanding. So of course, it would not be quite proper for them to travel together - not married, I mean.”

Glóin was less salacious. “Some can fight side by side with their beloved, but some cannae do it. Yer amad, Gimli. She’s better with a throwing axe than I, but in a skirmish with her around, I would not be able to think, every plan would put her safety at the forefront, even to the detriment of the objective, and she would do the same for me. I understand it.” Gloin nodded slowly.

Bilbo looked pleased that his words were having an effect.

Glóin looked defeated and punctuated his speech with heavy sighs. “So, you are saying that this Elf, the fruit of Thranduil’s loins, was, according to Elrond, the best of a bad bunch.”

Glóin turned to Gimli and gripped his shoulder in silent commiseration.

Back in their rooms, the pouch of Old Toby was almost finished. Gimli had been sitting alone and thinking. If this Elf’s goal was to get more information from Gimli or simply to make sport of him, then Gimli would make sure it did not succeed. And it would only steal the Ring over his dead body.

Gimli also considered what he had learned. If Legolas had not helped them to escape, Bilbo was right that they might have remained imprisoned to this very day. Erebor would not have been restored and their people’s glory would have remained tarnished, with the wealth of Erebor still a dragon’s hoard.

Gimli thought about what Legolas’ help in the escape meant. A part of Gimli wanted to dismiss it. With two burglers, the Company would surely have figured out a way of the dungeons. But would it have been in time for the last-light of Durin’s day? Any later and the key would not have worked. Even waiting a year to the next Durin’s day may not have been possible. They were already out of supplies in Mirkwood. Returning to try again next year may never have happened.

Gimli’s thoughts were annoyingly persuasive, and the phrase Life-Debt kept rising to the surface.

So if Glóin had languished in a dungeon, or been killed by orcish arrows, what would life have been like for Gimli? He thought of Nori’s stories of growing up fatherless in Ered Luin. Gimli was only a few years short of his majority when the Company had set out, so the experience would not have been the same as Nori’s, a young child running in the bad rock of Ered Luin. But the life of an Erebor refugee was a far cry from the privilege of living as a son of a Hero of Erebor. Some of Bombur’s youngest children had been born in Erebor, and even Gimli could see they were spoilt little brats. But Gimli had been old enough to recognise his good fortune for what it was, and spend every day grateful but recognised that he was no better than any other Dwarf simply because his father held a fourteenth share of Erebor’s wealth.

So, Legolas had released Glóin and saved him from the orcs. _Fuck_. That was it. Glóin owed him a Life-Debt. The whole Company did. Glóin would never acknowledge it. Even before he had known Legolas’ name, only that an Elf had helped in the escape, his position was that Dwarves could not owe life-debts to Elves. When pressed, he had acknowledged that one could be thus indebted to a hobbit, or even a Man, but not to an Elf.

Gimli knew that kind of thinking did not make sense. Elves were still people despite their unfortunate history. Of course, one could owe a Life-Debt to an Elf.

Before, it had been an unspecified Elf he would never meet. Now it was a Life-Debt owed to Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of Thranduil. On top of everything else Gimli would need to set that right.

The knowledge that his father had been saved by Legolas did not make Gimli hate him less. He felt only resentment at the debt. He would need time to think of how he could settle it.

On two more occasions the Elf had the nerve to seek him out, but Glóin did not grant him entry to their private quarters.

There were times, however, when it was impossible to avoid the Elf. Once, in a planning session, they were all gathered around a map together with Elrond. All of them were paying attention apart from the Elf.

Boromir asked the Elf, “will you take no interest in our route?”

“I can’t read it.”

In fairness, not all common folk were able to read maps, but this was a prince, thousands of years old, claiming not to know how to read a map?

Gimli wanted to call out. ‘He fucking can read it. This Elf plays dumb, but I am the only one to see it. Manipulative bastard’. But he knew it would get him nowhere. They were all taken with him and it would be his word against Gimli’s and Gimli would not wager the word of a Dwarf being believed over that of an Elf.

The others seemed to simply shrug and continued.

Gimli turned the thoughts around in his mind, worried at them like a seed stuck between his teeth. What had happened between them had not been real. He knew that. It had meant nothing to the Elf. It had been nothing more than a diversion. There had not been any danger to the Elf, and he had considered Gimli paid for. None of it was real. But the look of utter ravishment on the Elf’s face was one he could not forget. Gimli’s fingers touched his own lips as he recalled the kiss-bruised lips on the sleeping Elf’s face. He remembered the filthy noises and felt himself stir.

He would have to learn to calm himself. He could not hold onto this anger any more than he could indulge the heat. On this perilous journey he needed to be able to think clearly with this Elf around him. He needed to let go of the hurt. It had been Gimli’s own assumptions which had led him astray. He needed to gather about him all that he knew and wear it about him like an extra layer of armour.

This Elf was cunning and devious. He must not forget that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for your kudos and comments! <3
> 
> Dwarves learn Westron as a first language and only learn Khuzdul when they are old enough to be trusted to be able to keep that secret.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. Wrinkles have been ironed out and your update is here! Several more are also in the pipeline :-) Thanks again for reading!
> 
> Just a reminder regarding names:  
> Aragorn is known as Estel when he is among Elves.  
> Gandalf is known as Mithrandir by the Elves and as Tharkûn when among Dwarves  
> Lord Elrond is Elrond Peredhil, which means Elrond half-elven. 
> 
> Thanks to the incredible Aylwyyn228 and Aquamarina for beta-ing.

The bell rang out to summon all to the meeting and Legolas’ heart was already racing as he approached the Council. He gathered his courage about him. Then he saw his Dwarf - Gimli - but how?

Gimli was laughing with another Dwarf. He was here, and as real and solid as he had ever been.

Full of joy at this unexpected boon, Legolas surged forward and tried to greet him but was rebuffed. Reeling at the harsh tone of the confusing words of the old Dwarf, and at the lack of acknowledgement by Gimli, he somehow managed to find his seat.

The Dwarves shared the reason for their journeying. No immediate solution could be come upon and the matter would be revisited in the coming days.

Legolas delivered the message of Gollum’s escape as he had rehearsed, but his eyes were cast down and he was flustered. Estel, or Aragorn as he was calling himself at this council, had left Gollum in Mirkwood’s care and the creature had escaped.

When Legolas realised the role this Gollum had previously played in giving information to Sauron, he felt sick. The creature was linked to the Enemy, as Estel had said, and Legolas should have taken more precautions. Legolas felt ashamed, compounding his grief at the death of his own people during the escape.

The presence of the Orcs, so close to the palace at that very time of Gollum’s escape could hardly have been coincidental, and they all realised that Gollum was more cunning than they had previously believed. The creature would surely act against them once more, and was now at liberty to do mischief due to Legolas’ own shortcomings.

As he resumed his seat, Legolas looked across at Gimli and saw none of the openness, none of the laughter and joy which had drawn Legolas to that face. Of course, the topic was a serious one, and he did not expect Gimli to giggle about Sauron, but Legolas saw only anger in Gimli’s visage. The anger had been present even before Legolas spoke of his failure and Legolas was confused. He had never expected to see Gimli again, now here he was. Legolas’ stomach was sweeping and swirling at the memory of his embrace, of his kisses, at the softness of that beard. But Gimli would not even look at him directly.

The Man Boromir spoke of a dream both he and his brother had experienced, months before and which had prompted him to come to Imladris, seeking answers. In this dream, the eastern sky had grown dark, but out of the west a light had shone forth, and from that light a voice had called out, saying: _"Seek for the Sword that was broken;/In Imladris it dwells./There shall be taken counsels/Stronger than Morgul-spells./There shall be shown a token/That Doom is near at hand./For Isildur's Bane shall waken,/And the Halfling forth shall stand."_

At Boromir's words, Estel produced the broken sword: the sword Narsil.

Legolas remembered his recent lessons as the Man Boromir offered insult to Estel. Legolas stood, indignant. “This is no mere Ranger, this is Aragorn son of Arathorn!” - how dare that Man be so rude? Legolas himself had been reminded of this only a few days past, but this was a Man and Estel was his king. The Man Boromir should know such things.

The Man Boromir reminded Legolas of Opherion with his talk of duty and plans for his kingdom. But he lacked something, or rather he had a quality of straining desperation, just under the surface, and this made Legolas struggle to warm to him.

Mithrandir spoke again of the corruptive power of the Ring which would only create a new Dark Lord to enslave Middle-earth. He counseled Boromir that to use it would be impossible and he reluctantly agreed. The only course left was to destroy the Ring.

This Dwarf was noble, spurning the allure of the Ring and without a second thought, made a move to destroy it. Even though he was unsuccessful, Gimli only rose in Legolas’ estimation.

Legolas felt the urge to put right his own failure, to be part of the drive to rid the world of evil. Legolas pledged that he would join this Fellowship.

“I would be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!”

The force of the Dwarf’s anger was beyond anything Legolas had experienced before. Even when fighting Orcs or Spiders there was something impersonal to their malice. Even when he dispatched them, Legolas did not feel any personal enmity towards them. When his father and brothers had berated him, there was a clear underpinning of love and concern for him.

But this; ‘never trust an Elf!’. It was searing fury - Ai, this Dwarf was so angry at him.

So the knowledge that Legolas was Thranduilion was all it took to turn those tender looks to daggers.

Now, the Dwarf was absurdly suggesting Legolas wanted the Ring for himself.

_Of course, if Legolas had the Ring, their forest could thrive again. Sweet honeysuckle scents would wind through the air and the water would be alive again, sweet to drink and not befouled. Once again, tiny creatures could move freely. Perhaps, with the Ring he could turn Gimli to face him, to meet his eye, to hold Legolas again…_

No.

He snapped to attention at the Dwarf’s shouting and found himself on his feet. How could the Dwarf so quickly dismiss the tenderness with which he had held Legolas so recently in Dale.

“Stone hearted!” Legolas shouted. Oh - Legolas was so angry now - In this he was not Thranduilion, his anger burned hot. Legolas could not don the mask of cool reserve for this. How dare the Dwarf discard like rubbish what they had shared. To not even look at Legolas! To treat him as a stranger! Legolas’ cry was lost in the cacophony which now rang out around him.

 _Stone Hearted._ Even as Legolas said it, he knew it was not true. He had heard people say it; Dwarves had stone instead of hearts. Legolas could not credit it. He had looked into the Dwarf’s heart for just a moment in Dale. Indeed, the Dwarf may have had a change of heart, but he was not missing one. Even in this anger the Dwarf was directing at him, burning so hot, there was passion and flame, not stone. And he could not finish the saying. Naug. His Dwarf was not stunted. His form was stout and beautiful. Even in his anger, Legolas would not say it.

Legolas pledged to see to the destruction of the Ring. Estel had pledged to lay down his very life for the halfling's protection. Perhaps the Man had liked the dramatic sound of that proclamation. Surely, none of them would die. As Mithrandir had said, they would rely on stealth. Indeed, there would be peril, but they would be victorious and rid Middle-earth of this evil!

The knowledge that the Dwarf would form part of the Fellowship buoyed him. Legolas was simply glad to be near him even though he was still bewildered by Gimli’s new attitude towards him. Legolas held back angry and confused tears. Did this Dwarf feel not even the tiniest amount of tenderness towards him, from the evening they had shared? Surely Dwarves were not so fickle? Gimli, son of Gloin had been the introduction. Was he obeying a directive from this Gloin beside him to not speak to Legolas? Maybe when Legolas sang to the stars that night, they would give him answers.

As soon as the Council was adjourned, Legolas’ brother approached Elrond requesting that the Peredhil might grant him and Legolas a private audience. Legolas calmed himself. He was Thranduilion. He needed to be alert. There was no room to think on Gimli’s changed attitude right now. Father had warned that Elrond was full of intrigues and to stay on his toes.

The Lord of Rivendell’s private study was far more comfortable and luxurious than father’s sparse accommodations and Elrond’s enigmatic smile seemed to hold relief. “Prince Legolas, your presence has resolved a quandary. Notwithstanding, I do not delight in the obvious distress which brought you to report the loss.”

Elrond spoke to them candidly.

The composition of the group was fragile. Mithrandir would make the journey; Elrond’s approval was merely polite theatre - Mithrandir did exactly as he wished. Elrond loved his own fosterling, Estel, but Elrond had been there when Isildur faltered and was overcome by the weakness of Men. While Elrond said he was proud that Estel had acknowledged his lineage, and proud that he would make the journey, Estel was still a Man, and Elrond was glad that he would not be alone with the ringbearer.

The periain seemed strangely resistant to the rings. Mithrandir asserted that for eighty years Bilbo had held the One Ring, and Elrond’s own eyes confirmed that the hobbit was not consumed by darkness. Both he and Mithrandir had known better than to even let the Ring touch their skin for an instant, yet he knew that Bilbo had worn the Ring, yet remained whole.

Frodo would bear the Ring to be unmade in Mount Doom and for him to have a companion of his own kind would help him endure what would be a difficult path. Mithrandir had insisted the additional two perian be permitted and Elrond would not question his judgement in that.

The Man of Gondor seemed to wish to make use of the Ring, just as Isildur had so many years ago. Elrond spoke plainly, saying that his instinct was to exclude this Boromir, but he could not shun this Man in favour of permitting only his own fostered son, to accompany the ringbearer. It would not be politic at this time. Now was when all the forces of Middle Earth needed to be gathered united against the Shadow, lest they be turned against each other.

To exclude the Dwarves from the Fellowship would also have triggered such unrest. To their credit, the Dwarven kings had never fallen fully in thrall to their Rings of Power and had not become wraiths. The seven Dwarven rings were now lost. Some said they had all been returned to Sauron, others said that four had been destroyed by dragonfire and the remainder were lost, presumably buried with their original bearers. Little wonder then that without Rings of Power Moria and Erebor had both at times fallen to dark creatures without that protection. As had the Greenwood, Legolas thought to himself.

Without hesitation Gimli had sought to destroy the ring. Not to keep and use it. Legolas felt a warm glow of pride at the demonstration of this incorruptibility his Dwarf had shown.

Elrond continued and Legolas drank up the words. He had never been treated as worthy of being involved in such discussions before. Elrond said that could sense the time of the Elves was drawing to a close but for these long ages he had loved Middle Earth and could not abandon it to be overrun by Sauron. In this, Thranduil had more in common with the Peredhil than he would have liked to admit. Legolas himself was Silvan. He felt no call to the West and would remain on Middle-earth for better or for worse.

The Peredhil said he wished to leave an Arda worth living in, given that his daughter may not sail West. He did not say why he was so sure she would remain and Legolas was hesitant to ask. Perhaps stupid questions would change Elrond’s mind about Legolas joining the group.

Elrond reiterated that the question of which Elf to send was more problematic. Estel had trained well, but regardless of how proud he had made his instructors, the senses of an Elf were not to be outmatched and at least one Elvish warrior was needed on the journey; for their reflexes, if not for political reasons.

Lastedir claimed that Elrond was taking advantage of Legolas’ youthful earnestness to send him on a dangerous quest. “Why not send your own children?”

Elrond calmly responded that they had other duties. He added that he did not wish to undermine Estel’s authority on the journey, as his foster brothers sometimes still treated him as a child. Elrond gave Legolas a sympathetic look as he spoke those words.

Elrond then admitted that his first thought had indeed been to send his own sons to accompany Estel, Mithrandir, and the hobbit. One problem with that idea was that even if they could be spared from their duties supporting the Dunedain in Estel’s absence, one twin would not venture forth without the other. Never in their lives had they been separated, and to try to do so at this juncture would be a risky gamble. To send _two_ Elves, and incidentally three of his own sons, be they by sons by birth or fosterlings, would not be politic either.

Legolas thought to himself again. If Elrond sent his daughter, that would be one Elf, but again, he remained silent, not wanting to talk himself out of his place in the Fellowship.

Indeed, Lastedir was normally so logical and composed in his arguments, that to omit mention of the lady Arwen was a sign of how discomposed Lastedir truly was.

To send two Elves, would mean another Dwarf would need to be selected. A group of nine was already overlarge when ideally it would have been the Hobbit and the Mithrandir making the attempt alone together.

Elrohir and Elladan had helped Estel to learn his letters, to hold a sword, to lead even. Even if Elrond were to select the twins, for them to accompany Estel on this venture, on this test of his kingship, could eat away at Estel’s own confidence. It might have sent to Estel the message that Elrond felt Estel needed his hand held along the way. No. He could not undermine him thus.

Elrond had praised Legolas, saying that he admired that Legolas had felt driven to venture forth in person to admit to his fault, rather than sending a messenger to bear the brunt of any potential anger the news would cause. Again, Legolas felt distress at his error and worried that this was now the part of the discussion where the terms of his punishment would be detailed. Estel had warned against the creature’s wiles, but the warning had gone unheeded. Legolas braced himself. Now that they were in private the political repercussions of his failure would be discussed; but before Elrond could continue, Lastedir began to talk and barely gave Elrond a chance to speak.

Couched in diplomatic slights of tongue, Lastedir attempted to withdraw Legolas from the Fellowship to which he had pledged himself. In response, Elrond dodged Lastedir’s words, with all the experience of his years and his position, until the mask of Thranduilion which he wore cracked and Lastedir’s anger boiled to the surface.

Loudly, Lastedir argued that Legolas had promised Thranduil he would return home directly. He argued with Elrond that Legolas could not take part in such a dangerous journey. Lastedir himself, as a leader of troops, had responsibilities in the Woodland Realm so could not offer himself as a replacement. He urged Elrond to release Legolas from his pledge and to find another to send. Elrond said that none had been bound by an oath in this matter and only Legolas’ personal honour bound him to his words. Legolas alone could recant them.

Legolas had not argued, or even spoken as Lastedir grew ever more irate in his attempt to persuade Elrond to force Legolas to return with him. Lastedir did not argue with Legolas directly. His brother knew that when he dug his heels in, Legolas could be intractable and had not even bothered to try to change his mind.

Legolas was well aware of the seriousness of the undertaking. As Legolas planted himself in the knowledge that he would not be stopped, and he distanced himself from the high emotion of the council to try and think about the matter calmly. Understanding settled in his chest. He might not survive this quest. He had not agreed to go just to thumb his nose at father or for a chance to go adventuring but a part of him had revelled in the defiance. The gravity of the decision now weighed down on him. He could almost feel it physically.

Legolas believed in this cause and for the first time, he would be a part of something of his own. Legolas would break his promise to his father but he did not do so lightly. His honour meant much to him, but sometimes two worthy duties could be in conflict and a choice must be made. Would his duty as a child and as a subject of Thranduil take precedence? Would he stand by his public pledge, as a prince of the Woodland Realm and uphold his duty as a citizen of Middle-earth? Legolas would not return with Lastedir. He would travel with the hobbit.

Lastedir now openly begged. He gripped the hilt of his own sword and pleaded for Elrond to send someone else and let Legolas come home.

Unruffled, Elrond insisted he had no one else to send.

Elrond said he _could_ send a warrior such as Glorfindel, who was an undisputed hero of the ages, however that would bring problems of its own. Aragorn was a king of Men, Boromir was a would-be king and the tensions there were already visible even in this first interaction. Mithrandir always felt his way was right, now to add Glorfindel to that mix would be a recipe for disaster.

Glorfindel was loud and bombastic, there was no malice in him, but if he did not get his way, he became a disruptive force. Glorfindel and the Ring was another mix he would not like to test for an extended period. As much as Elrond cared about him, he could not deny that he was a braggart, he enjoyed attention and admiration. These were the very character elements not to be kept in close proximity to any Ring of Power. It was true that thousands of years ago there had been rumours of a Balrog in Moria, and the only remaining person in Middle Earth to have defeated one would be a boon on the journey. The Fellowship, however, was not to travel through the black pit of Moria, and not every rumour of dark creatures could be believed. So having a balrog-slayer travel with the ringbearer was unnecessary.

Those of a more martial mindset were less likely to agree to not being in command of the journey. On the journey when facing an obstacle, they would resort to force, when the only hope to be had was to fall back on stealth.

There were many Elves Elrond said he trusted and who were wise and erudite and as humble as any Elf could be, but they would be a liability when it came to battle.

Legolas could hear the flattery in Elrond’s voice but still accepted it. Elrond said that in many ways, Legolas was more prepared than any Elf he could have selected from Rivendell or Lorien. Legolas had daily encounters with danger, he was trained to alertness to perils from which the Rings Vilya and Nenya had kept Rivendell and Lothlorien free. In the paths outside Rivendell and Lothlorien, Orcs were not unknown, but incursions within the realm had never taken place and their peoples had a deep sense of safety, which the other peoples of Middle Earth, did not. An exception was the Shire, which had been kept in ignorance of the dangers which beset them, even as the Dúnedain lost their lives in defence of that peace-loving people.

Lastedir eventually sagged in resignation. Elrond would not release Legolas from his vow to pledge his bow to the service of this ‘Fellowship’, and Legolas was glad of it.

As the meeting with Elrond drew to an end, Elrond mentioned that he saw how the Dwarves had glared at Legolas and that it caused him some concern. Elrond shuddered as he recounted the antics surrounding the last visit of Dwarves to Imladris. He mentioned that Gimli’s father had been part of that Company on the way to reclaim Erebor. They had been irreverent and disdainful, but it had not been this simmering anger and hatred he had seen in this Dwarf’s eyes. Dwarves bore long grudges, and this one must still feel anger at the role of Prince Legolas’ father in imprisoning his own sire. The father, who was the white-haired dwarf present, seemed to have the same amount of ire directed towards Legolas and Lastedir. But in spite of this overt animosity, Legolas was still the best choice to represent the Elves.

Legolas did not trust himself to speak.

The white-haired Dwarf had been introduced as Glóin son of Gróin and Gimli as ‘son of Glóin’. So this Glóin had been one of the ones in the dungeons. Legolas did not recognise him now, but all of them had been vibrant and bursting with life. There was one who had had the same flame-coloured hair as Gimli. Perhaps that was Gimli’s father. In eighty years would Gimli also be white-haired as Glóin was today?

The last look he remembered receiving from Gimli in Dale had been fond. Now in Imladris, it was bitter. What had changed? Legolas had suspected Gimli’s anger was linked to his position as a son of Thranduil. He had thought the anger was a more generalised, nationalistic antipathy, given Thranduil’s general treatment of Dwarves throughout the ages. But this knowledge better explained the mystery of Gimli’s anger.

Legolas was glad that it did not seem to be simple regret at their encounter. Gimli did not seem to be one to prevaricate. He had known him for only an evening, that was not enough to know a person, but there were things Legolas had seen and knew to be true. He felt the conviction that Gimli would not choose a course of action then repent of it. He seemed so sturdy, so constant. Their joining may have been impulsive on Legolas’ part, but Gimli had taken a moment to decide, then fully engaged in the encounter. No. He would not have regretted it.

The only thing that was different was that Gimli now knew Legolas was the son of Thranduil. The knowledge of Legolas’ parentage was enough to visit the sins of the father on the son. Was there no gratitude at his role in the escape? Was that not enough to undo his complicity in their imprisonment?

The meeting was about to end. They were standing up. Legolas did not wish to reveal his previous encounters with either Dwarf so held his peace. Even his brother did not know Legolas’ role in freeing the Dwarves and he did not want it known abroad. Legolas frowned at the thought that what he and Gimli had shared could be overshadowed by old feuds. Gimli now knew his name and their shared history. Evidently, to the Dwarf the hatreds of their peoples and between their sires took precedence over any connection they had made.

In the following days, on several occasions Legolas attempted to approach Gimli. Perhaps if he could apologise for the imprisonment of his sire Gimli would speak with him. Legolas remembered the hostility in every movement of Glóin’s and did not wish to broach with him directly the subject of Thranduil’s dungeons. Perhaps Gimli would intercede on his behalf.

So Legolas tried to speak to him while Lastedir was securing provisions for the return journey and was involved in other diplomatic discussions. Legolas took a deep breath and walked towards Gimli. And was rebuffed yet again. Gimli would not even meet his eye and the white-haired dwarf - Gimli’s father - was railing at Legolas.

Legolas did not understand most of what he was saying and so backed away. It had the sounds of Westron but he knew none of the words. It must be swearing. Legolas knew only how to swear in Sindarin and Silvan. His tutors had not complied with his cheeky requests for certain Westron vocabulary, and the other words he had learned mostly when people forgot ‘little leaf’ was listening.

Even though the Dwarf now seemed to be poorly disposed towards him, Legolas could not help himself. His thoughts continued to stray to that night in Dale. He was an Elf, he could not simply ask the fog to erase his memories. In reverie, he chose again and again to revisit that upstairs room and even in his waking hours, he could not stop thinking about Gimli. Even within his hurt, Legolas could remember that blush on Gimli’s cheek, almost hidden by the beard if one was not looking closely. He could not stop thinking about that feeling, falling in the Dwarf’s arms. Of course, it would never happen again, but Legolas did not want this vitriol between them. He wished only to speak to him, for just a moment even.

Lastedir had managed to initiate several trading negotiations with with Boromir and the Mannish representatives who had travelled with him. The negotiations would continue in writing. Thranduil would generally outwait Men in such instances. If father did not agree with one, he would wait until their successor was installed, and then in their early days when they were still untried he would buffet them. Some would succumb to his demands initially, but this approach had often led to bitterness in later years. Others, hoping to show their strength as a new ruler would demand outrageous terms. Again Thranduil would wait either for them to mellow or for a successor to be installed. The shortages caused by the Shadow were causing father to have to change his approach and to be far more conciliatory than he normally would have allowed. Legolas was glad he had not had to spend much time in attendance as it seemed even more dull than the sessions with his tutors he had left behind many, many years ago.

Lastedir had noted that the Elves leaving Rivendell would have many items of value they would be unable to sail with. Lastedir discussed making these available to the Woodland Realm. Discussions would be entered into. Legolas had sat in on some of these discussions, but remained silent, as Lastedir had instructed. The unspoken undercurrent ran through the discussions about obtaining items from Rivendell; perhaps Mirkwood would be overrun and Thranduil’s people would move to seek refuge here after it was abandoned by Elrond. To take Noldor ‘leavings’ would be a blow to father’s pride, but always, he tried to put his people’s interests before anything else.

Two days after the Council, Legolas bid farewell to his brother and those who had travelled with them. They were not able to spare the time to tarry away from their forest. Lastedir had respected him enough not to ask him again to change his decision.

Legloas bid farewell to those who had accompanied them and would now escort his brother back home. Lastedir had not offered any of them up as replacements for Legolas in the Fellowship. For it to be known that their prince had recanted his pledge and had then offered one of their lives to the Peredhil would have done irreparable damage to Legolas' reputation in the Woodland Realm, so Lastedir had not even suggested such a substitution.

“What the fuck am I going to tell Father? Elbereth, Legolas. What will I say?” Lastedir pressed his forehead to his and touched his ears. Legolas did the same. His brother wiped Legolas' eyes with a thumb. “Stand firm, Thranduilion.” He whispered in his ear. Lastedir held him, and kissed the top of his head, speaking words of blessing and of protection. After he mounted his horse, Lastedir pressed a small stone into Legolas’ hand.

Then he was gone.

As they rode away Legolas felt very small. He had packed away his travelling clothes and was in silks, but next to these Imladris Elves he felt very gauche and unpolished.

Legolas’ last link to home had ridden away. He was alone for the first time. Oh yes, he was surrounded, but in essence he was alone. The trees and the plants here did not even reach out to comfort Legolas.

Imraldis was strange in its openness. No canopy, only open courtyards and rolling fields nestled within a valley. It was strange and he did not like it.

Legolas spent the rest of the day alone in his rooms, then remembered himself. He was Thranduilion. He was meant to be seeing another Elven kingdom, not hiding in his room.

And he had not forgotten Gimli.

Legolas had taken note of where Gimli was lodged. When he saw Glóin sitting with Bilbo one afternoon in the courtyard and saw a flash of red hair through the window of Gimli’s suite, Legolas girded his courage about him and found himself softly knocking on the door. The door opened a crack.

Legolas reminded himself of the facts; the Dwarf now knew him to be the son of Thranduil. Thranduil who had imprisoned their king and who had refused help to those fleeing the dragon. Legolas had heard often that Dwarves bore grudges to an unreasonable degree. Privately, Legolas knew of Elves who had held onto even petty grudges for multiple ages. He could not see why it was worse for an individual to feel the wrong for multiple yeni but for many generations of mortals to be expected to forget. The emotional impact of the incident would not be the same, once it was a second or third-hand wrong, but if the matter had not yet come to justice then he could understand why a grudge could be held for so long.

It was true that Legolas had helped in the escape, that he had worked to right the wrong, but that did not extinguish it. And it was the right of this Dwarf to visit the sins of the father upon the son if he so wished.

Gimli’s angry face peered round the door, then it slammed shut. The angry glare stung him. For a moment, Legolas had hoped that once again he could feel the embrace of those strong arms. Legolas had not seen Gimli in armour before, and the increased bulk and solidity of his appearance had made him even more appealing. But alas, Gimli was clearly no longer willing.

Legolas wished simply to talk, to apologise.

Legolas knocked again and heard the Dwarf’s footsteps walking away from the door, deeper into the room.

Legolas would try to keep his memory of their evening together separate and not allow it to be marred with this new bitterness. For a short time, he had known the hidden pleasures which can be shared with another. That would have to be enough.

Now that there were other Elves who neither infantilized him nor feared Thranduil’s intervention, Legolas found that he had not the heart for a liaison. Legolas understood the danger they were facing and knew any bond he formed with an Elf of Imladris would have to be temporary. They could not be added to the Fellowship and thus it could be months or years even before he saw them again. If ever. if indeed he were not killed in fulfilling the pledge of his bow.

Though an encounter with an Imladris elleth or ellon would surely be enjoyable, Legolas had not anticipated this feeling - as if a tiny fragment of his heart remained in that moment of climax. A fragment of his heart had remained in that plain room in Dale. Legolas knew that with intent, the physical acts could form a permanent bond. However, both must be willing, and he knew now that the events of Dale must have meant little to the Dwarf. For Legolas, it had been more a union born of curiosity and pleasure, but even so, Legolas was not willing to go through this hurt again with another. The last thing he needed was to burden his heart with another hurt, on top of his guilt about breaking his promise to his father to return directly home.

Especially among the Sindar and Noldor, some Elves restricted physical acts, even kissing, to the one to whom they were wed and no other, before or after. Legolas had never given that much thought. Though his father and the court were Sindar, Legolas saw himself as Silvan. Silvans did not limit themselves in such a way. But with the pain he now felt, he could understand the reasoning of the Sindar and Noldor. If he had never lain with the Dwarf, this dull ache would not follow him, and he would not have to use meditations to clear his mind and find calm and escape from that sensation. It was like a bruise. He could not help but revisit it and again he felt the ache.

Perhaps if Sauron were defeated he could search for love. He knew the Elves were departing, but he did not feel that pull. He would help to heal the forest. Once free of Spiders and the Shadow, perhaps an Elf of Rivendell, or even Lorien would consent to court him and remain with him in Middle-earth. For now, though, he would put aside those thoughts.

Legolas did not know any of the Elves here and they were so smooth and polished and sat about reading and playing instruments he had never even seen before. His accent was different and he had seen one laugh behind their hands after he spoke. He felt out of place and unmoored.

He was trying to find a way past the hostility from the Dwarf. If he were to have asked his brother to help, Lastedir would have to have been told of the encounter in Dale. With that knowledge, it was likely he would have upheld the previous objection to his travelling with the Fellowship even more vehemently. He would say it showed Legolas’ judgement was not to be trusted and he would have made every effort to drag Legolas away with him, back to their forest.

Legolas missed the communal meals after he bade his brother farewell, he retired to the suite of rooms which had been prepared for him and spent the rest of the day, then the night in reverie.

The next morning, he was awoken by Hobbits at his door.

“I think we should all get to know each other,” said one. Merry, Legolas recalled.

“Come and have second-breakfast with us!” the other called out. Pippin, was this one’s name. Legolas followed, bemused and intrigued.

The white-haired hobbit had thanked him for his help in releasing the Dwarves. Legolas hoped the perinath did not see him recoil when he had introduced himself as Bilbo. Legolas remembered a sprightly, bouncing creature. That Bilbo had been replaced by this gossamer shadow, all white hair and gentle smiles.

Legolas was pleased to see them at his door again the next day. This time it seemed they had gathered together all of the Fellowship. Seizing the opportunity, the leaders of the expedition began to make plans. They would be in Imladris for several weeks before setting forth and so hoped to discuss and prepare for every eventuality before they left.

Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry were talking among themselves. The others were looking at a map. Rather than subject himself to continued frostiness from Gimli by joining in with the group or trying to understand the maps laid out, Legolas decided to set himself apart and to familiarise himself with what messages he could catch on the breeze. The day was fairly uneventful and the following morning, he was not surprised to be woken once again by Hobbits.

As they sat in the small courtyard, Pippin clapped a hand on Mithrandir’s shoulder. “Let’s all get to know each other! Gandalf! Set the ball rolling!”

Mithrandir simply blew a ring of smoke and looked into the far distance.

Pippin lost none of his good cheer. “Maybe that was too vague. We are going to be together for a long way, all day and night. We need to get to know each other! I say ‘jump in feet first!’.” Pippin addressed the group in general. “Who was your first kiss?”

Legolas’ eyes flicked to Gimli but the group remained silent.

Pippin rounded on Aragorn to begin. However, when asked of his own memories, Aragorn would say only that as a Man of honour he ‘never kissed and told’ and that effectively put an end to that game before it even started.

ooooOOOOoooo

Elrond’s twinge of remorse at taking advantage of Legolas’ youthful earnestness was subsumed in the knowledge that this was for the greater good.

Legolas for his part had appeared shocked to see the Dwarf. Elrond knew that Legolas had fought in the Battle of Five Armies, but perhaps as a ranged fighter he had not been close to the field of battle. Perhaps Legolas had simply never seen a Dwarf at close quarters before - apart from the ones who had been held in his father’s dungeons. Legolas had been kept excessively sheltered by Thranduil. Elrond feared that the loss of his wife and the incursion of the Shadow into what was now Mirkwood had taken its toll on Thranduil.

The Elves needed to be represented in this journey and a part of Elrond felt sorry for this Elf who had been locked away under that canopy of trees for so many years. Indeed, he knew it would not be a pleasure journey, and it could indeed lead to the deaths of all who formed part of that Fellowship, however, from all sides the danger would be approaching. He would be safer in Mirkwood, but only for a time, until the victorious Shadow came also to claim this sweet, young Elf.

In the days of preparation, Elrond observed the group unobtrusively. When he saw Legolas shoot the stem of an apple from a hundred paces away, he felt even more reassured of having made the right decision.

ooooOOOOoooo

Legolas was careful to ensure all the arrows landed in a dead limb of the tree, and the apple tree sighed in thanks and dislodged even more apples. To the hobbits’ delight, apples rained down. Some were eaten immediately, despite breakfast having ended less than an hour ago, and some of the apples became bulges in pockets.

Legolas could not offer his apologies on his father’s behalf and of his own for the imprisonment of Gimli’s sire. Gimli would not even meet his eye. The group sessions were not an appropriate setting for such an apology but as much as he tried, neither Gimli nor the Dwarf who had accompanied him would be cornered alone.

Once, Legolas had wavered in his resolve to avoid interaction with the Dwarf. Legolas had tried to say something nice but Mithrandir claimed the Dwarf was actually offended. It hurt that Gimli wished to slight him.

Legolas knew only how to swear in Silvan and Sindarin and was glad that Pippin was willing to teach him the words in Common. He practiced one of Pippin’s discourteous words. ‘Bugger off’. Gimli could bugger off, whatever that meant. Legolas would not try again to speak with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Seek for the Sword that was broken’ is a rhyme that appeared in dreams to Faramir and later his brother Boromir. - tolkeingateway.net
> 
> In the book, the Dwarves came to discuss the Black Rider but they also came to the council to discuss their concern about the silence from Moria. I've followed Peter Jackson's lead and pretended they never talked about Moria :-)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special shout out to anyone reading who has English as a second language and still finds it a bit tricky. I appreciate the effort you put into reading this, so thank you! 
> 
> Thanks to all of my lovely readers for, well, reading - and also for the encouragement and feedback, kudos and comments <3<3<3
> 
> High five to my betas, Aylwyyn228 and Aquamarina.
> 
> (Tharkûn = Mithrandir = Gandalf)

Gimli watched the Elf’s tongue dart out to lick at the juice of an apple as he bit into it. The Elf smiled and sighed and closed his eyes, savouring the taste. That look was almost -

“Would you also like an apple, Gimli?” Tharkûn asked. 

Gimli's face burned, then hardened as he recalled the Elf showing-off as he shot the apples from the bough. He had fired from all sorts of contorted angles, crouching and stretching, forcing the arrows to land only on one particular dead branch. At one point it almost sounded as if he apologised to the tree. 

“I’d rather eat gravel.”

Tharkûn gave Gimli a reproachful look but spoke no words of censure, and Gimli carried on sharpening his throwing axe.

Gimli heard Pippin ask, “Gandalf, do Dwarves really eat gravel?” 

“No, master Took,” Tharkûn supplied. “It is simply a figure of speech. One, I must say, which is often employed in childish petulance and Dwarvish stubbornness.”

It stung that his pain was being called ‘petulance’ and ‘Dwarvish stubbornness’, but Gimli said nothing. He reminded himself to be calm. He stood and began the walk to his rooms but found Tharkûn following him. 

Even as Gimli tried to close the door to the suite, Tharkûn nonchalantly pushed in and made himself comfortable. Gimli remained standing, but his glare had no effect. Glóin must be visiting with Bilbo, so he and Tharkûn would be alone until Bilbo grew tired of Glóin’s visit and fell asleep in his chair.

Tharkûn began to speak and it was as if he knew Bilbo was on Gimli’s mind. “I had an interesting conversation with Bilbo. Bilbo let me know about the Life-Debt.”

Gimli glanced at Tharkûn sharply. 

“No, he did not call it that but we both know what it is.”

“Aye,” Gimli admitted reluctantly.

“So it would appear that Prince Legolas was the ‘mysterious Elf’ who helped release the Company from his father’s dungeons.”

Gimli made a noise which could generously be interpreted as ‘yes’.

Tharkûn continued, “and protected them from Orcs when they were in barrels, helpless, facing certain death.”

“What of it?”

“Yes, it certainly sounds like a Life-Debt. It sounds like he was an ‘unknown agent of Mahal’ but now, fortunately, his identity is known.”

“Well if you know so much, then you know it has nothing to do with me.”

“Indeed.”

They both let the silence grow.

They both knew that Glóin would not honour it.

Tharkûn prepared a pipe for himself and began to smoke.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, young Gimli, but I am quite certain Glóin has no intention of doing anything about it.”

Gimli felt sour that Gandalf knew Glóin so well and again felt a prick of shame at the dishonour. “Aye. And like I said. It has nothing to do with _me._ I am Gim ** _LI_ ** of the line Li. Whatever Gl **óin** or any others of the line **Ó** **in** choose to do has no bearing on my life - Actually, Tharkûn, if you care so much, why don’t _you_ tell Prince Legolas. In fact, while you're at it, tell bloody Thranduil that the Lords of Erebor are deeply indebted to Mirkwood. Then the elvenking can send the Company an invoice and be done with it.”

One did not live with Glóin for a century and a half and not pick up one or two tips about how to work oneself into a state. 

“Gimli, I’ve never been one to meddle.”

Gimli snorted.

Tharkûn continued as if he had not been interrupted. “It would not be my place to tell either Legolas or Thranduil anything. I merely thought it was an interesting fact. That is all.”

Gimli cursed under his breath in Khuzdul. If Tharkûn heard and understood then all the better. 

There was still no reaction from Tharkûn who kept placidly smoking and not even offering Gimli a puff.

“I’ve got enough on my anvil to be getting on with, Tharkûn. Maybe poke your nose in someone else's smithy.”

“Just passing the time of day with you, Master Gimli, no need to take that tone with me.”

Gimli suddenly felt like a very small dwarrowling, even as he huffed off to his own room in the suite, and left Tharkûn alone in the sitting area.

There was only one way to be released from a Life-Debt; the one to whom it was owed must declare it expunged, and must do so before witnesses.

The most pragmatic way to secure a release from a Life-Debt was to pay for one. To save the child of a noble lord was to never have to work again. In ancient times, strict laws had sprung up around this when it was found that some gangs would manufacture dangerous circumstances from which to ‘rescue’ the scion of a noble line. Sometimes the manufactured circumstances had proven too elaborate and extraction was beyond the skill of the would-be rescuers. 

Laws were passed whereby any person found to have been involved in manufacturing a situation which would necessitate a Life-Debt faced summary execution. A Dwarf’s honour meant much, and Life-Debts were not to be trifled with. Society had breathed a collective sigh of relief when penalties came in to safeguard this sacred aspect of their culture from manipulation. 

For a stranger to release one from a Life-Debt without demanding compensation was to declare the life saved to be of little value. It was a grave insult. When there were close bonds already in existence, bonds of friendship, love and family, to expunge a bond without payment was a mark of deep honour. All the Company had done this for each other, even Bilbo and Tharkûn, and thus, yet another invisible cord tied them all together.

Those who could not afford to pay, would offer a free supply of goods and services, or even indentured servitude until it was decided that the debt had been repaid. Normally a few decades sufficed. It was not intended to be onerous but rather to highlight the sanctity of life.

When it came to Life-Debts, there were circumstances where it was impossible to know one’s rescuer, and to whom the debt was owed, such as on the battlefield where it was not often possible to keep track of what was happening. In those cases, the requirement was that within two years, one would make an offering to Mahal. Some of the very pious would make such an offering every year. It was done symbolically, saying ‘one never knew when one might have been saved unawares’. 

Usually the offering would be a display of one’s craft or skill. On Durin’s day one would recite the ritual prayer, thanking Mahal for all his gifts, including the gift of continued life. Unknown rescuers were considered ‘agents of Mahal’, and a Life-Debt to them could be expunged by making the offering to Mahal. 

The Company had made such offerings on behalf of the Eagles, when Tharkûn informed them that the Windlords meant no insult, but would not come to a Life-Debt ceremony to acknowledge and discharge the debt. They simply rarely interacted with mortals. 

It had also been mentioned that the Ceremony of Thanks to ‘Unknown Agents of Mahal’, incidentally covered ‘the pointy-eared ones of Mirkwood who had helped them escape’. The Company had not even wanted to say the word 'Elves'. 

When Erebor had first fallen, the dragon had come at night. Families had panicked in smoke and flame and terror. A screaming young dwarrowling would be picked up from the ground and passed along to safety - A Dwarf running aflame would have the fire extinguished by another using his own jacket, then continuing to run. On that woeful day, there had been no way of knowing whether the one who had been saved in that moment evaded death in the following minutes and hours. 

The same uncertainty surrounded the fate of one’s rescuer. They could have been crushed by the ornate carvings of their ancestors, which had become missiles raining down on them as the dragon thrashed and used its tail to destroy pillars with deadly effect. The familiar face of the baker was an unrecognisable rictus of terror. The face of the Dwarf who sold intoxicating mushrooms was now missing the luxuriant, elaborately braided beard by which he was recognised, instead all that remained of the beard were singed wisps. 

Among the survivors of that day, it was considered in bad taste to claim a Life-Debt. The trauma of that day had bonded them all as a people, even as they had then dispersed throughout Middle-earth to survive. 

The purest way of expunging a Life-Debt was to save the life of one's rescuer, but that was the stuff of dwarrowling tales. The kind of story his amad would tell him when he was a pebble, doing all the different voices as Gimli snuggled into his nest of blankets set low in the rock. 

That never happened in real life.

Now that he was known though, all the Company would have to acknowledge Prince Legolas as the ‘unknown agent of Mahal’.

_Fuck._

Gimli was going to have to pay this Elf. He knew his father would never do it. Glóin would rather dishonour their family than abase himself in giving thanks to the son of Thranduil. The stink of ignoring a Life-Debt clung for generations and Gimli would not live thus.

In the tea rooms, lazy guild members with nothing better to do, would sit and talk about others as they passed.

‘Look at him,’ they would say. ‘Look at him stomping about as if he shits mithril. If I were him, I would be ashamed to walk below ground and would take myself to a Mannish place. His grandfather did not acknowledge that Life-Debt.’ ‘Aye,’ another would continue. ‘We were all in the forges that day. He can say all he wants that he would have moved away in time, but that was a Life-Debt, plain as gravel.’

Gimli stood to inherit the remainder of Glóin’s fourteenth-part share of Erebor’s wealth. He had to admit that day would not be long in coming. A large amount of Glóin’s share had been used in rebuilding not only Erebor, but also Dale, however a tidy amount still remained. Really, it should go to the line of Óin, but Glóin asserted that he had gone through everything for Gimli, ‘not for that rabble’, and that Gimli would inherit whether they liked it or not.

Bilbo did not owe Legolas a Life-Debt. Gimli had heard the Company stories more times than he cared to remember. With the ability to become invisible, the likelihood was that Bilbo could have saved himself. But the remainder of the Company was in debt to this Prince Legolas. _Mahal’s balls!_

This Prince Legolas, with a portion of thirteen part-shares of Erebor’s wealth, would be the wealthiest creature on Arda.

_Shit_

The Elf technically _could_ demand services, and seeing as Thranduil already had coffers overflowing with stolen wealth, Prince Legolas might not even _want_ more money. What kind of services might he demand? 

Gimli needed someone to talk this over with. He wanted Dís. She and his mother always gave the best advice but in this, Gimli’s mother could not be objective given Glóin’s position and her love and loyalty to her husband. Though Dís had inherited Thorin, Kili and Fili’s shares, he trusted her to be always clear-headed, even when she had a stake in the outcome.

Glóin’s desire to snub the Elf, regardless of honour, battled against Gimli’s desire to preserve the family’s honour. Gimli himself was of the line of Li, not the line of Óin, having followed his amad Thali’s line. Technically therefore, one of the other Óin cousins would need to set the Life-Debt right or the dishonour would pass to them, but that did not sit well with Gimli. Even if they chose to make payment, they would not be able to afford what that Elf would demand for rescuing a Lord of Erebor.

There were no other Dwarves to speak to of this here. The party they had travelled with had seen them to the entrance of Rivendell, then departed, with only one of Dain’s advisors remaining. Bomfip had departed for the Shire the day after the Council had met. After Gimli left Rivendell, Glóin would be escorted by Rangers to rejoin with them in the Shire. They would winter in the Shire, ignoring all the pointed hobbity looks and enjoying the food, the pipeweed and Tookish company, before returning to Erebor in the Spring.

If Gimli were killed on the quest, would the knowledge of the Life-Debt endure? Glóin would not share that information. And Gimli doubted that Bilbo or Gandalf would speak of it. As much as Bilbo liked to gossip, he knew what was serious and never crossed that line. Gandalf was beyond knowing. So if Gimli died, Prince Legolas would go back to being ‘an unknown agent of Mahal’. Would that be right? Could Gimli’s conscience rest knowing that through silence he would rob the Elf of such vast wealth? The Elf was already wealthy. Surely, Gimli could come to terms with it?

Children played ‘saved your life!’, a game where one would push one’s classmates, then grab them by the scruff of their clothing before they hit the ground. Luckily dwarves had hard skulls. Sometimes Gimli wished he could return to those simpler times. This was all so complicated.

A Life-Debt usually meant a life, but saving from serious maiming or other changes could also be considered as ‘partial’ debts. It was not an exact science and the codified rules did not always make intuitive sense. The tip of a beard was worth the same as a finger, and a full braid was worth a toe. The loss of an ear was equivalent to broken ribs or a bruise anywhere on the body no larger than the size of a hand, but a cut which drew blood was considered the same as a burn. 

As detailed as the rules were, they were fairly useless because the amount of payment depended entirely on the value of the life saved in material terms. Under the law, the murder of a poor drunk who had gambled away every last heirloom of his house was punished the same as the murder of the noblest of lords, kin to the king even. However the ability of the wastrel and the high lord to pay off a Life-Debt varied significantly, and ability to pay was what repayment hinged upon.

The only consolation was that when one found out of a Life-Debt, one was expected to wait at least one month before discussing a settlement. This was in place to prevent the heat of emotion from forcing an answer either party might later regret. 

Gimli removed his armour and remained in his room for the rest of the day. 

In the days to come, Gimli found himself now avoiding both Tharkûn and the Elf.

Tharkûn would sometimes visit with Glóin in their quarters, causing Gimli to leave and to visit with Bilbo. But if the Elf was in Bilbo’s quarters, as he so often was, Gimli would turn back around and find somewhere secluded to sit alone.

Glóin would visit only the dining room and the admittedly lovely baths, and Gimli kept him company. They bathed at odd hours of the day to avoid Elves and had the waters to themselves. Gimli did not feel happy leaving Glóin alone in their suite and thus did not see much of Rivendell. 

Despite this, somehow Gimli seemed to see the Elf all the time now. Suddenly the Elf seemed to be everywhere. The hobbits seemed to have adopted him. Sometimes he would be in company with Lord Elrond’s daughter, sometimes with Bilbo, and the other hobbits. Half the time Prince Legolas would be singing something or another and as soon as Gimli heard the tra-la-lally on the approach to Bilbo’s rooms he immediately turned around. 

Rivendell lay deep within a valley, and plants grew amid the stone architecture. The stone felt strange. Not like the familiar granite of Erebor. It felt - processed. As Gimli explored, on a balcony with stone benches, there was the Elf. On his heel, Gimli turned around and went away. 

In the days after the Council was adjourned, plans were set into motion. The Dúnedain, grim faced Men, together with Elves of Rivendell were scouting the surrounding areas and clearing any Orc parties they found. They also went about setting false trails and leaving rumours in nearby settlements. The Rangers were placing orders and paying for ‘travel gear suitable for travelling to the Northern Wastes’, ordering maps to Ered Luin and generally sowing disinformation. Those who had pledged themselves to the Fellowship had few obligations apart from waiting for the signal that their departure was imminent.

Every morning at dawn, Gimli practiced his weapons forms, but his days were otherwise empty and unstructured. Now and again, he found himself being herded by the hobbits into a group with the eight other members of the Fellowship.

The youngest Hobbit seemed intent on getting everyone together and when they were assembled, he tried getting them to talk as much as he did.

“Has anyone here travelled much before?”

Into the ringing silence, Gimli volunteered an answer. He was, in fact, quite proud. Even before he had reached his majority, Gimli had travelled with Dwalin and Nori as they met caravans of spices and received trade from the Iron Hills as well as carrying out official business. He had travelled with the Toymaker Bofur as far as the borders of the Shire and had even met Bilbo twice, but before Frodo had been born. 

His favourite visits, however, had been to the Beornings. Dwarves did not forget those who had helped them, and the Company, now Lords of Erebor, recognised that without Beorn’s intervention, the mountain may never have been regained; so Erebor sent gold in tribute. Beorn himself was now dead, but Gimli knew that his grandson continued Beorn’s tradition of distributing the annual chest of coin to those around him whom he saw were in need. The Beornings’ own simple way of life did not change, but Gimli noted that all the children in the area were plump and rosy cheeked, reminding him of hobbits. 

After Gimli finished his recitation of his own travels, the Elf spoke. This Elf claimed that apart from having been to Dale a handful of times, and seeing Erebor from the field of battle, this was his first time away from home.

This little shit. He would lie about this too. To what end? The Elf was thousands of years old. At the very least he knew the Elf must have been to Dale more often than ‘a handful of times’. 

The Elf was trying to set another trap for him perhaps. Gimli’s mind flitted to that awkward, clumsy kiss and had to remind himself, it had all been an act.

No one called the Elf out about the obvious lies.

As the group began to disperse at the end of one morning’s planning session, Gimli remained.

He had to say something.

For the first time since the Council he initiated a conversation with the Elf.

“Thranduil sends Elves to Dale often.”

“Yes,” the Elf answered guilelessly.

Not guilelessly. Gimli needed to remember that.

“To spy,” Gimli continued.

The Elf nodded.

The pointy-eared creature did not even deny it. What was he playing at?

“Oh, yes! My father sends Elves out to the Men of Dale, but he has not permitted me to do so.”

All Gimli’s training was needed now. He slowed his breathing. Take the air in from the nose, out through the mouth. He blew out roughly. No. he needed to remember the goal. To protect Frodo. This Elf would do anything to get him thrown out of the Fellowship before the journey even began.

Gimli harnessed his anger and redirected it as contempt. “I’m sure you always obey your father, then,” Gimli sneered.

Legolas coloured.

“And you spy on Dwarves?”

At least Legolas had the decency to blush a little. At least he felt some guilt. That was worth something.

“No. We do not seek out information from Dwarves.”

Gimli felt his fury bubbling up again. So, the Elf was going to be brazen in his lies.

The Elf continued to speak.

“No, I’m afraid he does not care much about what the Dwarves do. Though I believe sometimes birds bring him messages. Unfortunately, birds are not that loyal and can be turned easily with food.”

Was this Elf mocking him about the discarded meal he had eaten in the Boar’s head? The Elf wanted him to explode, to attack. Then, with all these witnesses it could be agreed Gimli was too unstable to journey with the Ring. He would not fall into the trap.

Even though he _knew_ he was being provoked deliberately, Gimli felt his grip tighten around his axe. From nowhere, Frodo quickly stepped between them to prevent an argument. Frodo spoke loudly, calling out to the Man of Gondor. “Boromir, tell us more about your journeys!”

Gimli listened a little out of politeness, then at the earliest opportunity, Gimli returned to his suite.

Gimli may have had too much elvish wine that night, and winced at the sound of persistent knocks on the door the next morning as Pippin tried to round him up for another one of his ‘making friends’ sessions.

“Let us say one nice thing about the person sitting opposite us!”

The young hobbit’s face shone with too much enthusiasm in the too-bright glare of the morning sun. Wouldn't those birds just shut up?

As usual, Pippin began. “Gandalf’s fireworks are the best thing I’ve ever seen!” Tharkun’s coloured explosives were probably less familiar to hobbits than to dwarrowlings. Their mothers and fathers worked in the mines and worked with explosives regularly, but Gimli could admit Tharkûn had achieved such refinement in the displays he was easily a Master of that art, if indeed there was such a craft. 

Gimli had not even noticed the Elf slip onto the bench furthest from him.

In a quiet voice, the Elf spoke. “Gimli’s beard is very beautiful.”

Red rage washed over Gimli. So, to mock and insult, that was the Elf’s intention. Perhaps to humiliate him so that he would abandon the Fellowship before it even began. To shame him before all the nine gathered together!

Gimli would not be baited. He would not start a fight and be dismissed from the Fellowship so that the Elf could continue alone with his nefarious plans. He would stay away from the Elf until they were on the road and interaction was inevitable. He subsumed his anger and drew himself up, and with all the dignity he could gather left the group.

As Gimli walked away he heard Tharkûn speak. “Legolas, a Dwarf’s beard is a very private thing, and not to be discussed in this manner.”

Gimli spat on the grass as he walked away.

There were no further incidents with the Elf, and Gimli made the most of the time with his father. He patiently heard familiar reminiscences shared again and learned new things about his father. 

Gimli heard a soft knock on the door. Glóin no longer slept the light sleep of a warrior and had stirred, but not awoken. Gimli went to the door.

Standing there was the Elf.

Again.

He opened the door only partially. Gimli’s eyes were drawn to the Elf’s soft mouth. He smelt once again that smell of fresh rain and his hammer stirred traitorously. The Elf’s eyes were dark and the pupil seemed to fill his whole eye.

Gimli was glad of the door as a barrier between them.

Quickly he came to himself.

“You’ve got a nerve. Come here to get more information out of me?” Gimli snarled and this time the Elf did not knock again after Gimli slammed the door shut.

Silently, Gimli returned to his bed. And after failing to sleep, ashamed, he pulled at himself, to images of sinuous limbs and glossy black hair.

* 

One afternoon, Gandalf appeared at his door. “Walk with me.”

It was a command, in spite of the smiling face.

“I hear from Gloin you trained your tenth apprentice.”

Gimli could not help but puff out his chest a little.

“I was not surprised you were chosen to come to Rivendell, to the Council, I have followed your progress with interest. You’ve made your family very proud.”

Gimli knew he included the whole Company in ‘family’. Tharkûn himself had never been considered a Company member. Though he had no doubt saved them on many occasions and offered invaluable assistance, there were several notable absences and last-minute appearances. Tharkûn had been absent during their capture in Mirkwood, and was nowhere to be found during the attack of Smaug. Again, during Thorin’s gold-sickness he had been absent. Though never mentioned aloud, to those as loyal as Dwarves, these were great stains on his character. In the eyes of the Khazad there was no greater treachery than to abandon a friend in need. Of course, Tharkûn had never signed a contract to be a member of Thorin’s Company, but morality did not need paperwork. Had he not been found wanting, he could easily have worn the title of Company member. 

Over the years Gimli had seen Tharkûn in Erebor. At first, Gimli had been too old to include himself in the audience of tricks Tharkûn performed for dwarrowlings; pulling semi-precious gems from behind dwarrowlings’ ears and filling abandoned tunnels with flares of coloured light. Well, at least he stood at the very edges of the crowds.

When he was somewhat older, Gimli would sit in with Balin and King Dain as Tharkûn shared his opinions on the goings on around them. Gimli had never been quite sure of his motivations and to what end he was meddling, but the outcomes were almost always favourable, so Gimli’s reserve never grew into suspicion, but also it did not flare into affection.

“So, Gimli. I notice Prince Legolas seems to have rubbed you up the wrong way.”

Gimli’s eyes narrowed. Some of the Company had said Tharkûn could jump right into one’s thoughts if he willed it. Gimli would not tolerate that. No one had permission to rummage around in his mind.

Tharkûn continued. “It seems you have adopted some of Glóin’s prejudices.”

“I can see well enough what they’re like for myself.”

They continued to walk and reached a small grove of trees, bracketing a small overhang carved of an interesting type of quartz. No. Gimli would not allow himself to be distracted by this type of rock, which he had seen only once before near the Iron Hills…

Tharkûn coughed.

“I only bring this up because disharmony in this journey could prove fatal. The success of this undertaking already stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all.”

“It will not be _I_ causing any disharmony. I can assure you of that, Tharkûn.”

Tharkûn now spoke in Khuzdul. “What will you do with the Life-Debt? Glóin does not mean to honour it.” 

Those were ritual words and through the turmoil, Gimli could not even find any indignation at Tharkûn's use of their secret, sacred language. Gimli did not know what he would do.

“I suppose I will wait for him to bring it up.”

“Gimli, Legolas knows nothing of Dwarves apart from those he met in his father’s dungeons. The onus is on you.”

Gimli snorted disdainfully at this. “Thousands of years old and he knows nothing of Dwarves?”

“He is possibly the youngest Elf on Middle-earth. He is not thousands of years old.”

“Is that what he tells you?”

“Gimli, when Thrór was on the throne and your grandfather Gróin was still a lad, I visited the Greenwood, as it still was, to celebrate Legolas’ birth. He is not ‘thousands of years old’.” Tharkûn said this with a fond smile.

This gave Gimli pause. So maybe he had been telling the truth about not having travelled abroad. But he was still at least double Gimli’s age. And if Legolas had been a favourite of Tharkûn's since birth, it was even less likely that Tharkûn would try to be objective. There was no point in trying to argue or to show how the Elf had been trying to bait him. As always, an Elf would be believed over a Dwarf.

So many of those around him seemed to be wilfully blind to the treachery of Elves, though they should know better. Rivendell surely held libraries full of the histories. Perhaps the Elves burned or locked away the volumes which spoke of their many evil deeds. If that were so, there were probably no volumes left on the shelves, Gimli smirked to himself. 

“Please, Gimli. Try to be friends. Or at least to be civil.”

“Tharkûn. He wants to spy, get information from me to send to the elvenking.” Having unburdened himself, Gimli wondered how Tharkûn would respond.

“Thranduil does not spy on the Dwarves, he tries as much as he can to pretend they are not there.”

Gimli did not want to have a repeat of the conversation he had had with Nori and Dwalin on his way back from Dale, so did not correct Tharkûn. 

Tharkûn did not speak and Gimli sat on the bench and watched the clouds. Gimli had travelled enough not to get sick in open spaces, without the embrace of stone. A Dwarf would never die of that ailment, but it had made life miserable for those of the refugees unable to acclimatise to the outside. Some had spent their entire lives inside Erebor before the dragon laid waste to the mountain. It was said there were some who had never seen the sun in full brightness or even the moon. They were not many, but they were not unheard of. Stone-clingers they were called. Some had even refused to leave when the dragon came and had not been heard of again. It was not considered in good taste to speculate. The polite opinion was that they had died instantly in the dragon-fire, but all knew there were worse fates.

Tharkûn’s original question remained unanswered. What _would_ Gimli do about the Life-Debt?

“At the very least, try to be civil. I am sure if you got to know him, you would like Prince Legolas.”

No. Gimli was too clever to fall for that Elf’s wiles again.

“Of all the Elves, it had to be Thranduil’s spawn. Sodding Prince Legolas of Mahal-cursed Mirkwood.”

Tharkûn started to explain why it had to be Legolas.

“Save, your breath. Bilbo’s already gone through it with us.”

Tharkûn suppressed a smile.

Gimli began to stand up.

“One day, when you are a leader, you may understand Thranduil’s choices a little better. Thranduil was intimately familiar with dragon-fire and the destruction it can cause. Nothing had grown in the desolation of Smaug for many years. As far as Thranduil was concerned, he had on his doorstep a group looking to rouse a dragon which had fallen dormant. Even you will admit, Gimli, that the Company’s success was due in large part to luck. The outcome could have been devastation to the whole region.”

Tharkûn did not seem to expect an answer as he walked away, and Gimli would not have had one to give.

“Wait.” Gimli said. He knew the words would fall on deaf ears but he must say them.

Gimli thought of the Elf’s face. Apart from those ears, he looked like a Mannish youth. A shaven youth, but not so young as a beardless one and there was something ancient in his eyes, a fatigue which comes only from having seen battle. His face was not marred by the usual Mannish scars or pox and lines of worry. Had he ever been hurt or ill or anxious? Of course not. He lived a charmed life, where little in the mortal realm concerned him. That is why it was clear that he had an ulterior motive for joining the Fellowship. Concern for a world he could easily leave would never be enough to move an Elf to risk his life. Only the pull of the Ring had brought Legolas to pledge his bow. 

Tharkûn was waiting for Gimli to speak and raised an eyebrow.

Gimli considered what he should say to Gandalf. To warn him of the dangers of travelling with Legolas. Elves were cruel, but Legolas had been endlessly patient with Pippin. Singing to him and telling him tales as often as he requested and always with a cheerful smile. Well that was not too much of a hardship as he loved to sing and tell foolish elvish tales. He would show off with his bow to entertain them. They would place items for him to shoot from impossible angles, even hanging upside down from a tree, then laugh with delight when it was done. Legolas would laugh a full bellied laugh in response. Gimli had not known Elves could laugh like that. Then he remembered his betrayal. 

“You cannot trust Legolas,” Gimli tried to warn. Tharkûn simply shook his head sadly and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to BubblySpiral for the phrase 'sodding Prince of dratted Mirkwood'!
> 
> Apologies to anyone getting flashbacks of actuarial insurance tables when talking of calculating Life-Debts!
> 
> Thank you for reading. Leave comments or feedback if you are so inclined. Appreciate you all.
> 
> The next update is a short chapter on Wednesday.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imladris = Rivendell
> 
> Thranduilion = 'son of Thranduil'
> 
> Estel = Aragorn
> 
> Mithrandir = Gandalf
> 
> Yeah, this was going to be a 'short' chapter update. SURPRISE it's not that short at all. I'm not sure if I will have a Saturday update. If not it will definitely be on Wednesday. 
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful betas, Aylwyyn228 and Aquamarina.

He did not know what to do.

As Legolas walked, the precisely cut paving stones were a barrier from the earth. The trees here were manicured and restrained. The open skies felt overwhelming and he missed the canopy of home. The animals here all seemed tame and sluggish. They had not learnt to hide at the snap of every twig as did Mirkwood creatures. Everything that grew here was safe to eat and none of the wildlife was dangerous. He did not belong here. He was at a loss.

Here in Imladris the sounds of Westron, Sindarin and even Quenya all mingled but Legolas missed the rhythm of Silvan. Legolas was now glad of his tutor who had at times conducted entire lessons in Westron, not answering unless Legolas also spoke in Westron. It still felt strange in his mouth and sometimes his tongue tripped over the strange sounds.

Here was not the perpetual twilight of Mirkwood, but all around was the glowing languor of a place under the influence of a Ring of Power. Legolas found it difficult to tell the passage of time. He could see the last of autumn turning to winter and light snows fell, but this variation in weather gave the impression of being a construct, artifice - mere decoration. It felt as if with a snap of the finger the weather could change and all time here could stop, if the hand which wielded the ring Vilya so willed it.

Legolas walked and bit his lip as he worried. Legolas did not know what to do about Estel. He did not know what to do about Gimli either. One he wished to avoid, the other he wished to speak to. It was easy enough to avoid Estel outside of the group settings. But Legolas could not corner Gimli to speak with  _ him _ privately outside the group settings. Occasionally Legolas would attempt to talk to Gimli, but now it was without any real hope of success. He had tried to say something nice to Gimli in one of the group sessions, but Gimli had stormed off.

Then, at the end of a group session Gimli had approached Legolas for the first time in Rivendell, since the Council. Oh - Legolas’ heart was a little bird beating within his chest. Legolas wanted to reach out his hand and take Gimli’s but Gimli would not even meet his eyes. Gimli had begun to speak of Dale and Legolas’ heart raced even more but he forced himself to remain calm. Legolas was surprised he would bring up Dale in such a public setting but did not question him. Legolas was hoping that maybe remembering the connection they had shared there would help mellow relations between them. Legolas had decided to let Gimli direct the conversation, and he was simply happy that Gimli was speaking to him after the cold treatment he had been giving. 

But when Legolas spoke, it seemed as if the mere mention of Thranduil had reignited Gimli’s ire. Legolas had been ashamed to speak of his father’s disdainful contempt for Dwarves but would not lie to Gimli. It seemed that Gimli was set in his hatred for him as Thranduilion and Gimli’s face had been so red and angry that Legolas could hardly bear it. 

Even though he had decided he would not do so again, Legolas had knocked on Gimli’s door once more, but the Dwarf had accused Legolas of seeking ‘information’. Was he talking about the sessions where Pippin was trying to make them speak about themselves? In his anger Gimli was not making sense. Or perhaps Legolas was not understanding the Westron correctly. After several rebuffs Legolas did not want to dog his steps, so Legolas once again forced himself to stop trying to speak with Gimli alone. 

Legolas wandered around this strange place by himself and the stars did not give him any answers. 

There were no singing circles under the trees here. These Imladris Elves would sit in courtyards. They played strange instruments and their music had no heartbeat, no life to it. It felt full of lines and angles. During the day they painted and made delicate crafts. Legolas could do none of those things.

For the first time, he was around people who did not already know everything about him. He felt awkward approaching them. They would smile, and bow politely. Legolas would not return the gesture knowing that he outranked them. Legolas’ mind raced and there would be nothing to say. He would look at them blankly for a moment then turn and walk away.

One day soon after his brother’s departure, he turned and nearly ploughed into four hobbits carrying a basket.

“See, Merry! You should look where you’re going!” cried one.

“Begging yer pardon, yer majesty – highness – princeness.”

Legolas smiled in response and they all visibly relaxed.

“Are you busy with your Elf friends or do you want to come with us?”

“I have no friends here.” As the words formed Legolas’ heart twisted. He really was all alone.

Pippin attempted to link arms with him but he was far too short for the effort to be successful and settled for half-pushing, half-pulling him along.

When they reached an empty room which looked like a study of sorts, they laid a checkered tablecloth on the desk and laid out sandwiches and tarts onto smaller napkins. The hobbits stood and Legolas decided to sit, that he might not tower above them.

“Are you sure it is alright for us to be in here?” Legolas asked as he sat.

“Perfectly alright, Prince Legolas,” came a voice from behind him. The steward, Lindir, was standing in the doorway.

Legolas thought it would be polite to stand in acknowledgement of Lindir’s presence, but the rules of preeminence were taken very seriously here. As a prince, technically it would be a breach of etiquette for Legolas to rise for the steward, so Legolas ended up in an ungainly stooped, half-sitting, half-standing position. One of the hobbits waved a sandwich at Lindir.

“This study is usually reserved for visiting scholars, but symposia have been suspended given the recent – events, so it is at your disposal.”

Legolas sat firmly in the seat and tried to think of something to say.

The erudite voice continued. “This room is of course available for your use at any time, your highness. You may take any of the books from here or the main library to your room if you so wish.” Legolas blushed but said nothing and inclined his head.

The hobbits took him under their wing and most days they would spend some time with him or take him with them to visit Bilbo. He would shoot his arrow into targets they designed. It was very easy but they seemed to enjoy it. As the days passed Legolas found himself laughing more. He learned their songs and tapped a beat with his foot. Sometimes he would even join in with Merry and Pippin as they chased each other, arbitrarily changing sides mid-game.

Only when he almost tripped over Arwen and Estel as he ran backwards did he consider that his deportment in this game may not be the best representation of the Woodland Realm.

She smiled and it felt like a clean spring wind. “It is always a blessing to hear laughter,” she said.

Legolas knew Arwen was also one of the youngest Elves on Arda, but he also knew she had been born in the beginning of the third age, thus had seen many more yeni than he and so still felt young and awkward before her. 

Estel also smiled then stepped forward.

“Oh,” said Legolas.

Oh, indeed. He had just run into the person who for days he had been avoiding being alone with. Aragorn’s kindly smile made it worse. He and Arwen exchanged a speaking look, then touched fingers as she swept away. The trailing sleeves and gauze train would have been covered in mud at this time of year, if she had tried that outfit in the Woodland Realm.

“Would you join me in the baths?” Estel said. 

There was no way to politely decline. “I have no oils with me.” 

Ah, - was that the best excuse he could come up with?

Inspiration struck.

“Will you come, Merry, Pippin?” Legolas turned, “Sam?” His eyes were now begging. “Frodo?” Legolas would not mind visiting the baths with Sam and Frodo, but with Merry and Pippin he could imagine that the splashing would most likely get out of hand. But he would brave it to avoid being alone with Estel.

“We bathed in the morning.”

This stay of execution had never been indefinite. Legolas was glad they would have privacy for this. They reached the baths and Legolas threw off his clothes, tied his hair into a knot at the top of his head, and slipped into the warm water. At this odd hour, the baths were empty, apart from an Elf periodically bringing fresh towels and goblets of wine on a silver tray, then melting away again unobtrusively.

Estel’s eyes were so gentle - Legolas wanted to dissolve into the water. Why would Estel not just shout?

Estel’s voice was as gentle as his gaze when he spoke. “It seems that you have been avoiding me. I thought it would be better for us to discuss this and put it behind us, your highness.”

Oh, Legolas could not bear to hear the honourific when Legolas was so much at fault. Legolas waited for the harsh words.

Estel seemed to be waiting for a response, then spoke again. “ _ Have _ you been avoiding me, your highness?”

Legolas would not add deceit to his offence. He would not say ‘no’. Legolas looked down and he felt his eyes brimming. He had come to Imladris to hold himself as Thranduilion, but instead the Dwarf hated him  **because** he was Thranduilion. And he had shamed himself before this king of Men and was now about to shame himself further with these cowardly tears.

Legolas looked up and met Estel’s eyes. “Yes. I had been avoiding you. I did not wish to see you alone, and have you berate me.” 

Estel remained silent as if waiting for him to continue, then when the silence persisted he asked, “why would I berate you?”

“I am sorry.” Legolas whispered. “I saw how you were when you brought Gollum into our realm. You were battered and bruised. You were weary and had suffered much to bring him into captivity. And I undid that. I am sorry.”

“You made a mistake born of compassion.”

Legolas brushed away Estel’s words. “I should have listened to you and taken extra precautions. I thought I knew more than I did.”

Estel smiled a genuine smile, his eyes free of judgement. “It is a gift to know one’s faults and to learn from one’s mistakes. There is none that is perfect.” He held Legolas’ eye. “The weakness of Isildur is in me and I am conscious not to allow myself to be overtaken.”

All Legolas could do was to nod in relief at the empathy from Estel. He swallowed and thought of how to give voice to his gratitude for the understanding and compassion Estel had shown. He was still a son of Thranduil and could not grovel. 

Legolas was silent for so long that Estel spoke again. “You are not a child and I will not berate you as one. I understand that you are one of the youngest Elves on Middle-earth. Though your experience is not the same as mine, I feel I have some level of understanding of your unique situation. When I lived here, I was the youngest in all Rivendell. I understand how it is to be fully grown, but spoken to, and of, as a young child. I understand also the weight of expectation. I have spent these many years in exile, now I must stand up and do honour to my line. We travel together of oath and of necessity but you would do me honour to allow me to count you as a friend.”

Legolas felt overwhelmed and simply nodded. 

Estel continued. “I know a shadow holds sway over much of the Woodland Realm. I felt it when I was there. I fear that Gollum, aided by that dark force, would have found an escape in spite of all the efforts of your kingdom.

Legolas was much comforted. He felt happiness dance up in his chest together with the sheer relief that Estel did not hold him in contempt. They finished bathing and parted ways with Legolas feeling much lighter of heart.

*

Shortly after the Council, Elrond’s twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir had left with the Rangers to prepare the way for the Fellowship. Legolas would have liked to speak with them for they had a kind look about them and reminded him somehow of Lastedir. Elrond himself was rather intimidating. He wore his years of experience like a sheen and Legolas felt clumsy and ungainly whenever he was in the vicinity. 

Next to Glorfindel, Legolas had similarly felt clumsy and awkward. He felt so young and did not know what to say to him. He wanted to ask about when he had slain the balrog, but probably he was tired of telling that story. 

His brother, Lastedir had been punished for telling Legolas about balrogs. It had been when naneth had still been with them. Legolas had run to her and clung. “Is it true they have hands of fire, and that they like to eat little elflings? That they start at the toes and the more you scream, the more they gobble you up?”

Her dark eyes had flashed, and she had stormed out of the nursery leaving Legolas with his father. He had fallen into reverie by the time she returned, but he remembered Lastedir had no longer been allowed to tell him stories before reverie.

He was now past such childhood fancies and strengthened by the encouragement of Estel’s words Legolas had felt confident and did not hesitate at all when Elrond asked to speak with him one afternoon.

Elrond had called Legolas into his study. Legolas had followed in silence, his heart beating loudly in his ears. On the long silent walk, in Elrond’s intimidating presence, Legolas felt his newly found confidence leaking away. Legolas began to worry. Would Elrond say Legolas was to be sent home? That Legolas had been found wanting?

Instead, Elrond had spoken of a plan which he had set into motion. Elrond had decided to send Glorfindel to the Woodland Realm, together with a handful of fighters. In ages past, Glorfindel had been at the head of many famous victories. There were many ballads about his fame, his prowess, his greatness. 

Legolas had sat in Thranduil’s court long enough to have learnt how to read the true meaning of Elrond’s words: Unfortunately Glorfindel at some point had begun to believe in his own legend. Elrond was uneasy having him around the One Ring of Power in the weeks of preparation. Elrond recounted how Glorfindel had been speaking more and more about restoring the glory of the Elves and that there was no need to leave Middle-earth. That if only the Elves had the means they could be powerful once more. Glorfindel had said that there was no need to believe that the time of the Elves was coming to an end, and that Glorfindel himself ‘would show Sauron what’s-what’ given the chance. 

Well, Elrond would not give Glorfindel the chance or even give him the opportunity to indulge in the temptation to follow the Ring when it left Imladris. 

In the days after the Council meeting Elrond had sent Glorfindel to the Woodland Realm. He had allowed Lastedir a few days to have a head start and deliver the bad news to Thranduil that Legolas had remained with the Fellowship. Elrond explained that aid and a message also needed to be delivered to Erebor. Lastedir had enough bad news to deliver to the elvenking. If he were to immediately also ask for aid for Erebor in the same breath it would be denied by Thranduil out of hand. 

Sending Glorfindel to Thranduil with a band of fighters would be a gesture of contrition from Elrond for having sent the prince on such a dangerous quest. Although the archers of Glorfindel’s troop would not be on par with the skill of those of the Woodland Realm, Thranduil should welcome reinforcements, however small a number. A whole platoon of warriors would not replace Legolas as far as Thranduil was concerned, but in practical terms, it was better than nothing. 

Knowing Thranduil, his anger would burn as coldly as the icy-white heat at the centre of a forge. Legolas was glad he would not be there to see it. It frightened him, though it had never been directed towards him. If Thranduil refused to be mollified, he might reject Elrond’s overture out of hand. Thranduil might demand that Glorfindel and his band leave. If that transpired, then Glorfindel would travel on to Erebor and not return.

Legolas felt a palpable sense of relief from Elrond that Glorfindel was away from the Ring. Even in the short time Leogolas had interacted with Glorfindel, the way he had been looking at Frodo was concerning. The only gladness Elrond openly expressed was that the band of Elves departing from Rivendell might draw away the gaze of the Enemy.

Elrond praised the Dwarves as brave fighters but they had very few, if any fighters who used ranged weapons, and that would be a necessity during a siege. If the Dwarves allowed suspicion and mistrust to cause them to reject the offer of elvish reinforcements, Glorfindel and the unit sent with him would support the Men of Dale. 

The Men of those lands were not as martial as the Men of Gondor or of Rohan. Mayhap that had changed in the brief decades since the Battle of Five Armies, when the Men of Laketown had been cut down like grass due to lack of widespread formal training in weaponscraft.

As the Dwarves had explained in the Council, a messenger from Sauron had entreated with Dáin II Ironfoot, King under the Mountain, asking for news about Bilbo, and of the Ring that he had possessed. For its return, Sauron had promised to return to Dáin three of the Seven rings given to the Dwarves long ago. Dáin, however, mistrusted the messenger's words, and had sent Glóin, with his son Gimli to seek Elrond's advice.

Elrond explained the plan in relation to Bilbo. Messages had been sent via raven. If intercepted, the full message should be unintelligible. Even if a Dwarf were captured and tortured in order to decipher the meaning of the message, Elrond hoped it would still be cryptic enough to leave the interceptor confused. 

Legolas recalled how he had been shaken to the core at the Council as Mithrandir recounted the treason of Isengard. Mithrandir had gone on to tell how he had been held captive by Saruman, the head of the White Council and head of the order of wizards. There were few remaining they could trust. Bilbo would be safest in Imladris or in Lothlorien where Rings of Power offered protection. 

As Legolas walked away from Elrond’s study, he decided not to sing the Evensong with the Elves gathered in the main courtyard. For one thing, he preferred to sing his prayers in Silvan, not Sindarin. But it was more that he did not fit in. His singing was - was wrong. He could not sing softly and sweetly like these Imladris Elves. He poured his heart into his singing and as he felt the Song flow through him, it sometimes led him to dance, to laugh, to lay down in the grass. His prayers did not blend well with those of these Elves.

A pine tree extended its branches towards him in invitation and Legolas climbed. He would praise Eru here. He would listen for the voices of the stars here. As he sang, he felt the Song of Creation flow through him. Legolas also felt the discordant note from the south. It was not as strong as it was back home, but he still felt it, jagged and cruel. 

The branches gently cradled him and Legolas fell into reverie alone in the tree and thus the night passed. As the dawn kissed him, a curious hummingbird hovered by his head. He was still wearing the garland the hobbits had given him. Legolas had winced at the destruction of the blooms but accepted the flowers in the spirit the gift had been given. He offered the nectar to the hummingbird and watched as it flew away. He loved seeing creatures here, which would not dare to visit ‘Mirkwood’. He had never seen hummingbirds before, nor swans, nor peacocks. Legolas laughed to himself as he thought of how the peacocks reminded him of several people he knew from home. Their discordant screams were surprisingly at odds with the beauty of their appearances. No Mirkwood creature would make that much noise and hope to still live. 

As the pink light crept over Imladris, Legolas turned as movement caught his eye. Gimli was standing on a balcony, already in full armour. Legolas had not meant to invade Gimli’s privacy. He had come to have this vantage due to the friendly overtures of the tree, not out of a desire to catch a glimpse of the Dwarf on his balcony. From this distance it was unlikely that Gimli could see him within the thick evergreen boughs. He had not come here to watch him, but could now not look away. Gimli looked so solid. Legolas watched transfixed as Gimli held his axe and planted his feet. 

In slow motion, Gimli turned and twisted, miming powerful strokes of his blade. He was a picture of strong, compact grace. Legolas had been told Dwarves were ungainly, but he now knew this was not true. As Gimli ducked to avoid an imaginary foe, his back leg took his full weight as he leaned backwards, almost parallel to the ground. Gimli repeated the motions, but this time at an incredible speed. It was not as fast as an Elf could be, but again, Legolas had been told Dwarves were lumbering and again saw this was not true. Legolas would not want to be on the wrong side of this dance. With each step Gimli took, the impression was that he grew from the stone in the balcony and that his feet would not be moved from that spot against his will. Legolas watched, cataloguing his style of fighting. It was beautiful. 

Legolas did not know how long he had been watching. Finally, Gimli stood still. His forehead was damp with sweat and his breathing heavy - as Legolas had seen in Dale. Gimli then kissed the blade of his axe then walked back into his suite. 

Legolas again felt the weight of loss. Living in the Woodland Realm Legolas had absolute trust in his senses. Trusting his observations kept him alive. Legolas knew what he had seen and would not believe there had been no real affection. The lust had been there between both of them, undeniably. There had been attraction, but there had also been affection that night. It had simply been subsumed. It seemed that politics were at the root of Gimli’s antipathy. Such abstract reasons should not be strong enough to erase genuine emotion. Legolas would not believe there was no affection left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yen, pl yeni = 144 years - an elven measure of time
> 
> Anyone who has heard a peacock scream knows what I'm talking about. And they scream for no reason. Especially when you are trying to sleep.
> 
> A messenger from Sauron had entreated with Dáin II Ironfoot, King under the Mountain, asking for news about Bilbo and the ring that he had possessed, which had apparently once belonged to the Dark Lord of Mordor. For its return, Sauron promised to return to Dáin three of the Seven Rings given to the Dwarves long ago. Dáin, however, mistrusted the messenger's words, and had sent Glóin, with his son Gimli, to seek Elrond's advice. - summary from tolkiengateway.net
> 
> Thanks to BubblySpiral for the phrase 'strong, compact grace'. 💗
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback and concrit welcome!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Tharkûn = Mithrandir = Gandalf)
> 
> Thanks to my betas Aylwyyn228 and Aquamarina (acdaniels).

The main dining hall was another place Gimli could not avoid seeing the Elf.

Initially, when the Dwarves had arrived in Rivendell, Lord Elrond had attempted to honour Gimli, Glóin and Bomfip with a place on the high table. Glóin had refused to eat, taking only some cram from his pocket and drinking from his waterskin. In solidarity, Gimli and Bomfip had forced themselves to ignore the rumbling of their stomachs. They ate only in their suite, consuming the remainder of their travel provisions. 

After a few days, Glóin had evidently become sick of cram and had seized upon a new tactic. He would wait for the meal to be served before entering the dining room. He would approach a place setting at random and take the place of the Elf sitting there. The first time, a scuffle had broken out leaving food on the floor and Gimli doubted those stains would come out of silk. The next day the Elves seemed to have been briefed, and when Glóin approached they had yielded like water. Glóin felt that Lord Elrond might be willing to poison the Dwarves, but not his own Elves. Thus, from Glóin’s perspective, a randomly selected plate was the safest.

Glóin did not have the strength in numbers to antagonise Elrond openly, as the Company had done all those years ago. This time, the small Dwarven party of three had not used furniture as kindling, had not been rowdy and had generally kept away from the common areas. This behaviour with the food was not simply from a desire to be disruptive, but was propelled by Glóin’s very real, if unreasonable fear of poisoning and Gimli would not berate Glóin for this.

If someone were to try and poison them, Gimli could now be predictably relied upon to always choose to sit at the setting furthest from Prince Legolas. Since Gimli himself was worried more about treachery than about poisoning he did not really mind the risk. He was happy to be away from the Elf, as he laughed and ate with the hobbits. 

Legolas spending so much time with the hobbits ensured that Gimli avoided them also. A part of Gimli was glad to have a reason to be able to distance himself from Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin. Gimli still visited with Bilbo when the Elf was not there, but as the date of their departure drew closer, he felt a need to draw away from the hobbits.

The prosperity of Erebor had become the prosperity of Dale. When news spread of the newfound opportunities to be had in Dale, Men from various settlements chose to try their fortunes there.The newly wealthy of Dale had disposable incomes and the Dwarrow crafts found a ready market but there was still room for other luxuries. Some thirty years ago, Gimli was part of the guard for a caravan travelling from Bree to Dale, consisting of Men wishing to make a fresh start in a place of new possibilities. A family of lacemakers was looking to relocate and Gimli had become fond of their little lad on the long journey. He had been endearing, with a sturdy earnestness and reminded him of Sam in many ways, even in appearance. 

An Orc attack had taken them by surprise. Though not run through, the little lad had been grazed by an Orc blade. As was the Orcish custom, the blade had been coated with poison and it had taken the boy a week to die. Frodo’s injury had brought the terrible memory rushing back to Gimli’s mind. After hearing of Frodo’s ordeal on Weathertop, where he had been injured with the Morgul blade, Gimli had woken that night in a cold sweat. 

When working, Gimli brought every ounce of professionalism he had to the job, but that incident had reminded him not to become too invested in his charges. Gimli had pledged his axe and considered Frodo family. Gimli would risk his very life to protect Frodo. However, Gimli was a seasoned traveller. He knew that it was unlikely that all four soft hobbits would survive this quest. A part of him hoped Tharkûn was only humouring Merry and Pippin and that when the day of departure arrived, only Frodo would come with them, perhaps with Sam as moral support. But another part of him, the student of Nori, understood Tharkûn's reasoning. Only a hobbit could safely carry the Ring, so if one was lost, they had three spare.

Thus, Gimli could not allow himself to grow close to the hobbits. He would do as he pledged, but keep his heart intact.

Gimli looked on as Glóin found a seat. Gimli was surprised that  Tharkûn had not meddled or put a stop to Glóin’s antics at mealtimes, but one could not follow all the machinations of that old Wizard so Gimli did not even try to understand.

The last conversation he had had with  Tharkûn about the Elf danced in Gimli’s head as he watched Prince Legolas. 

Now that Gimli knew the Elf was supposedly ‘young’ he could not help noticing it. His face looked the most relaxed when he was with Merry and Pippin and the other hobbits. He would laugh and his face would seem to have a light of its own. Of course, he could not help showing off, hanging upside down from branches and giggling in delight at the juvenile pranks Merry and Pippin played on Sam and Frodo. It was clear that he was trying his best to ingratiate himself with the Ringbearer. He would not dare snatch the Ring here in Rivendell where Elrond had the Ring of Power, Vilnya, and could possibly fight against him. Gimli was certain he would wait until they were in the wilds to do anything. The Elf was simply laying the groundwork. 

There was now something sad about his face which he had not seen when they were in Dale. But it would not profit him to speculate about the Elf’s face.

Gimli wondered if there were any legal precedents whereby a Life-Debt might be discharged by saving the life, not of the one to whom the debt was owed, but to one he tried to kill. If Gimli saved  _ Frodo _ from Legolas, would the debt to Legolas be undone? Even to Gimli it seemed a bit convoluted.

Gimli noticed how Legolas tried to speak to some of the groups of Elves and they seemed to turn their noses up at the prince. That instinct to protect rose up, then he remembered; it was no concern of his.

Sometimes, from his balcony, Gimli could see where the Elves gathered for their evening singing. He would sometimes watch Legolas singing in the courtyard. How did anyone rest with that caterwauling? No. That felt ungenerous. It was certainly strange-sounding and Gimli had never heard anything like it but there was an unearthly beauty to it. He imagined sometimes that he could hear Legolas’ voice rising clear in the descant, separate from all the other voices and it stirred something within him. But he needed to put away such foolish fancies.

*

Today, Glóin had snatched up Elrond’s own plate after he had served himself as well as snatching that of the Steward. Glóin then pushed over so that he and Gimli might sit in the places of Arwen and Aragorn at the head table. 

At the end of the meal Lord Elrond approached them. Finally, Gimi thought. The lord of this place had reached his limit.

Instead of scolding, Lord Elrond spoke in courteous tones “Master Dwarf. Would you and your son care to join me in my study?” At least the Elf was diplomatic enough to do this in private.

Glóin had taken his time leaving, and by the time they arrived, they found Bilbo already comfortably ensconced in Lord Elrond’s study. 

Lord Elrond knelt besides Bilbo’s chair and addressed him in an avuncular voice.

“I do apologise, Master Baggins. I do not wish to mar our hospitality with unpleasant talk. Indeed, for our guests, we try to ensure ‘The Last Homely House’ provides every comfort. However, at times, uncomfortable conversations can not be avoided; such as on this occasion.”

Lord Elrond stood, then swept across the room. These Elves always seemed to  _ sweep _ everywhere. He then addressed the three of them. The four of them. Gimli had not noticed  Tharkûn lurking in the corner.

With an air of formal pronouncement Lord Elrond faced his father and spoke. “You travelled from afar seeking counsel. You wished to know what response to give unto to the Black Rider. I now have the answer you ventured here to find.”

“Master Glóin, I have already taken the liberty of setting things into motion. At the Council, I noted your discomfiture at the sight of the Princes of Mirkwood and I did not wish to burden you so soon after the shock. I understand their presence here must have been a source of distress to you. Their father’s treatment of you was rather heavy handed and seeing the sons of your former jailer must have been disconcerting.” 

Gimli was glad that this was the common understanding of the animosity. It had been bad enough being humiliated in Erebor for his indiscretion, and he was glad that shadow had not followed him here. He was sorry, however that at the mention of imprisonment, his father tensed.

“Master Baggins, the Black Rider is to be told that you are dead.”

Glóin stood up in indignation but with a placating gesture, Lord Elrond continued.

“I do apologise, Bilbo, but you do recognise that you have attained an uncommon age among hobbits. The assumption, rightly as it turns out, will be that the Ring was passed down to your heirs and we wish for the Black Rider to believe both are in Erebor. The Enemy can then focus his attention there. Erebor can withstand a siege. For years if necessary.”

Gloin’s beard bristled and his face was red. “So you will serve the Dwarves up to the Enemy! The unending treachery of Elves!” Glóin spat on the study floor.

Elrond turned and spoke with palms out, in another conciliatory gesture. “It is not that we wish to serve up your people on a platter, Master Glóin. Our purpose is to direct the gaze of Sauron away from our true course.”

Gimli could see that Glóin now understood but Glóin had never been gracious in admitting his mistakes. 

Tharkûn now spoke.  “And it will focus the Enemy’s gaze away from the Fellowship. Away from your son, Glóin.”

Lord Elrond continued to speak. “We shall tell the Black Rider that Bilbo is dead, but that his family is within Erebor. Erebor will fall under siege. The women and children of Dale and those who cannot fight may also find safety in Erebor. I took the liberty of sending both your ravens Master Glóin. Here is a copy of the note sent with them.” The thin scroll was written in tidy khuzdul. 

Both Gimli and Glóin looked up at Lord Elrond with matched expressions of horror. The ravens had been trained to come when called, but only Gimli, Glóin and Bomfip knew the whistle, and surely Bomfip would not have divulged that information before leaving for the Shire.

Lord Elrond continued to explain his plan. “With no disrespect intended, I asked that our loremaster craft a message in Khuzdul.” Elrond inclined his head apologetically. “In the First Age, Dwarves were not so secretive and the tongue and lore were not so closely guarded.” His businesslike tone returned. “The message they will transmit verbally is ‘Await Elrond’s messenger. Ballad of Zakri.’ On their feet the message read: ‘Stockpile food water. Burglar is dead. His kin in Erebor.’ If the birds are somehow captured, the written message is the one I am happy to have disseminated.”

Gimli did not know what to say. He could see the merits of the plan, but he resented the heavy-handed interference. In any other situation Glóin would be bellowing by now, but perhaps his father was afraid to do so, completely at the mercy of the Elves, unable to resist being detained against his will once again.

“I do apologise about the premature declaration of your passing, Master Baggins but the full plan was too sensitive to trust to a bird.”

Tharkûn was patting Bilbo’s hand consolingly, but Bilbo looked only bemused. As each day passed, it seemed Bilbo was growing further from the talkative hobbit he knew, content now to sit and doze in his chair as things happened around him.

“I sent one raven on the day of the Council, I sent another three days later in case it was intercepted. I also sent Glorfindel shortly after the second bird. He will reach Erebor with the message in more detail.”

The typical arrogance of Elves. Throwing about their secret, sacred language. Tale of Zakri!  _ Durin’s Hammer  _ Bandying about their sacred lore and making decisions without consultation. Gimli remembered his conversation with Legolas.  _ Birds are not loyal, they can easily be turned with food.  _ Perhaps he had meant only that, without allusions to Dale. 

At Glóin’s indignant splutter of, “so you are telling me the birds did your bidding!” Elrond responded, “I am not a Wood-Elf but I do have some affinity with the birds and they were very co-operative.”

Glóin started putting teacakes from Elrond’s own plate into his pockets. “I must get ready to leave and catch up with Glorfindel. We can reach Erebor together.”

Elrond seemed to grow taller and spoke with authority. “Glorfindel has departed with a small band. Glóin, he will be travelling at a pace you cannot match. By the time you arrived in Erebor it would be sealed up for siege. You would travel alone through beleaguered lands? Would you have your son return from the quest to the news you had perished in the wilds due to stubbornness?”

Tharkûn now joined in. “For the sake of your son, set aside your pride,  Glóin . You are not of an age to traverse the wilds alone and there is no one to spare to take you. You are no longer a fighter. Until there is someone to take you to Erebor you will remain in the Shire. And until there is someone to take you to the Shire, you must remain here in Rivendell.” 

Lord Elrond spoke once more. “My people are departing for the West - they make for the Grey Havens and take the East Road and this passes by the Shire. We shall wait only for the winter snows to melt before departing. Know this Master Gloin; by the time you reach Erebor you may find it already besieged.”

“Why can not an escort travel with me, or one of the Rangers Bilbo was telling me of?” 

Lord Elrond simply reiterated that no one could be spared to serve as an escort. A Ranger had been allocated to escort him on the relatively safe road to the Shire, where the Ranger could then resume his duties. One Ranger would be insufficient for the long journey to Erebor where there was much more likelihood of encountering a band of Orcs or even ordinary thugs. On the road they would need several guards and that many Men or Elves simply could not be spared for the purpose of helping  Glóin arrive in Erebor before Glorfindel.

“I will go with the Fellowship, then.” No one argued with  Glóin. They all knew the proposal was absurd, however all in the room allowed him to save face by not speaking out. Slowly he rose from his seat and made his way slowly to the door. Gimli knew he was checking to make sure he had not been locked in, even though it would be illogical to imprison  Glóin in Lord Elrond’s study while they were all within. The fear superseded logic.

Elrond spoke to Bilbo now. In the Shire, Fatty Bolger in Crickhollow, had been tasked with wearing Frodo’s clothing and giving the impression Frodo was still in the Shire. A message had been sent with a swift rider that he must lock up Bag End and return to his own home in his own clothes. 

A messenger bird was sent ahead to the Shire with the message that ‘Bilbo died, Frodo had gone to live with the Dwarves, tell anyone who asked’. If they believed it, so much the better and, Elrond intoned, Eru willing, the time for explanations would come later.

Glorfindel, if granted an audience in Erebor, would explain to King  Dáin what message to give the Black Rider; Bilbo is dead, he had died in Erebor and his family is within Erebor. This would concentrate the Enemy’s focus on the Lonely Mountain. 

Glóin had intended to leave Rivendell as soon as they received advice about what to say to the Black Rider. Now he was torn between leaving the Elves and eking out every last grain of time he had remaining with Gimli. In the end, it was no contest. Gimli and  Glóin spent their remaining time mostly in their suite, but occasionally they would walk between the palisades of Rivendell. Glóin pointed out a courtyard’s bubbling fountain, indicating it was the same one the Company had befouled all those years ago and Gimli smiled to himself at that knowledge. For a change it was good to have got one over on the Elves. The most likely course of action was that  Glóin would travel to the Shire once Gimli and the Fellowship left Rivendell.

The Dwarven delegation, at the last minute before arriving in Rivendell, had decided not to share their concerns about the silence of Moria. Why reveal the weaknesses of Dwarrow settlements to Elves?  Glóin was more glad of it now that Erebor would be under siege and not able to send any reinforcements. 

As much as he continued to avoid the Elf during the day, he plagued Gimli's dreams, coming unbidden not only to the Boar’s Head in Dale, but also to other scenes. His mind conjured images of him in Rivendell, in various states of undress and compromising scenarios. All Gimli could do was try and focus more intently on his meditations, and without fail, spent hours practising his weapons forms. The mental focus required for that should redirect unwanted, - excess energy.

He needed to focus on the journey ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion from Tumblr re non-Dwarves speaking Khuzdul: "I wouldn’t be all that surprised if Elrond could speak Khuzdul. The Dwarves weren’t quite so secretive about their language in the First Age, and there are mentions of some Noldorin elves learning the language to study it. Elrond being such a loremaster, it’s possible he studied the language as well." https://askmiddlearth.tumblr.com/post/58240064118/khuzdul-part-2)
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and I love hearing what you thought!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas Aylwyyn228 and Aquamarina (acdaniels). Thanks to you for reading. Thanks again also for your comments and feedback <3

Legolas still missed his family, his forest and this place still felt strange, but he felt less alone now. He appreciated the sedate beauty of Imladris and befriended some of the tame creatures. The plants seemed so difficult to connect with, as if they were in a dream, but he often passed the nights in branches of trees which were polite, if not friendly. Legolas took care to avoid being within sight of any balconies or sleeping quarters, so as not to intrude upon privacy. A part of him also feared that if he saw Gimli on his balcony again as the dawn broke, he would not be able to stop himself from calling out.

When not in planning sessions, Legolas spent time with the hobbits, with Bilbo, sometimes with Arwen and Estel. He should really be doing...diplomacy with Elrond, but despite his small surge of confidence, he still felt out of his depth, intimidated, and scared still of saying the wrong thing. Legolas did not wish to talk himself into being sent home, so he tried to avoid Elrond as much as possible and avoided eye contact when meeting was inevitable. Lastedir had already covered the important diplomatic ground both with the Men and with Imladris; Legolas did not wish to undo the work with a misspoken word. Mithrandir fell into the categories of both ‘one with the power to send him home’ as well as a diplomatic contact, so for both reasons, Legolas also tried to limit his contact with the Wizard to official meetings.

The sun was low in the sky and once again, Legolas found himself reclining among a pile of hobbits on a soft seat in Bilbo’s suite. “Is the teapot empty?” Legolas asked. This somehow sent Pippin into a fit of giggles as he repeated the word ‘teapot’. Sometimes, when Legolas spoke, Pippin laughed at his accent. There was no sting in it. The hobbit copied the words he would say, exaggerating, rolling _r_ s and lisping for effect, laughing himself silly. Legolas shifted so that Pippin fell off the couch, then joined in the laughter at his startled face. 

Legolas sat with them and listened again to the tale of how the Black Riders were defeated at the Ford of Bruinen through Elrond's magic. Legolas heard of how Frodo had been pierced with a morgul blade, leaving a fragment embedded near Frodo’s heart. The hobbit had shown extraordinary resilience to its evil. He learned that Elrond, a master healer, had been at work for days trying to save Frodo. Legolas marvelled that despite the injury, he persevered and looked so hearty and hale. Elrond had said Frodo would soon be strong enough to make the journey.

Legolas worried about how the hobbits would fare on the journey. Bilbo had travelled across the world and had emerged safely; but he had been aided by the powers of the Ring which this time they knew not to make use of. Elrond had reassured Legolas that the hobbits were hardy. The Fellowship would keep them safe, and victory awaited them. Reading between the lines, Legolas had recognised the comfort Elrond’s words offered and took it, but to himself Legolas vowed to use all his skill to keep them safe. 

In the evenings, Legolas now went to the Hall of Fire along with the other guests. Bilbo performed his Song of Eärendil, then one of the Elves sang the hymn [A Elbereth Gilthoniel](https://youtu.be/kH9ZDFBI1EU). Legolas knew it and had joined in the second verse with the harmony. Legolas lost himself in the low, evocative notes and they had received a warm round of applause for their effort. It left Legolas feeling warm inside, as he looked through his lashes at the smiling faces. 

Legolas had begun to enjoy his time in Imladris even though Arwen was the only Elf of Imladris he spoke to with any regularity. Only the Man, Boromir, did not socialise. And Gimli. 

Like a stubborn thicket of thorns which would not yield to him, Gimli remained unapproachable and would not turn towards him. Even when Legolas, speaking sotto voce, had sent a butterfly to land on his nose, Gimli had only brushed it away. When Gimli saw Legolas blowing the fluff of a dandelion towards him, he looked furious and walked away from him. Every few days Legolas would try to catch Gimli’s eye but the Dwarf would still not look at him. Legolas was desperate to try and reason with Gimli, and his resolve to stay away would melt time and time again.

Legolas tried to focus instead on the journey ahead.

In a planning session, Pippin asked a question which Legolas had thought of but had been afraid to voice. Pippin spoke, addressing Mithrandir. “I read in Bilbo’s Red book that the Eagles had rescued Bilbo, you, Gandalf and the Dwarves. So...” Pippin took in a deep breath and rushed out the next words. “Why can’t they just fly us to Mordor?” 

Mithrandir’s mouth twitched. He answered gruffly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “The Wind Lords are not beasts of burden to be compelled, young Master Took. Besides, as Lord Elrond said, stealth is what will save us. Creatures of great power will attract the attention of the Eye. And powerful as they are, they are no match for the Nazgul.”

Pippin seemed satisfied with the answer but disappointed not to have found a short-cut and carried on making another flower garland for Legolas. Again, Legolas accepted it with sincere thanks despite the destruction surrounding its creation. 

As the others discussed plans, Legolas allowed his thoughts to drift. Leoglas wondered whether Lastedir and his escort had returned safely to the Woodland Realm. Had father received Glorfindel? Opherion would surely be trying to mediate between him and father. For the sake of safety and discretion, no messages even remotely connected to the Fellowship were now leaving Imladris. For the same reason, no messages had arrived for Legolas, so he could only guess at what might be happening. His horse had returned with Lastedir and as he lay on the grass while the group folded and unfolded maps, Legolas wondered how he fared. 

He tried not to think of home, lest he be overwhelmed, but from time-to-time he would allow himself a small indulgence. There, as he lay, he thought of the singing and of the dances of home. He thought of the fiery, spicy food, unlike these bland and dainty Imladris dishes. He thought of his brothers and of father.

*

One afternoon Estel led him to some secluded hot springs set in a beautiful grove. In this private bathing area, flowering vines knit together to form a fragrant arbor. At Legolas’ expression of wonderment and surprise Estel laughed. “I grew up here. I know all the hidden spots. I thought you might be missing the Woodland Realm and I wished to cheer you.”

‘You might be missing the Woodland Realm’. Legolas knew that to outsiders, it was little more than ‘Mirkwood’ now. All they saw was the gloom. Legolas’ mask was on. As Thranduilion he spoke. “Do you mock me?”

“No, indeed. I know the aspect of Rivendell is not so much under Shadow as your realm, but the Woodland Realm is your home and beauty still remains in it.”

Placated, Legolas relaxed. But as Estel had spoken of the Woodland Realm, the thoughts he had hoped the keep at bay came crashing over him, and homesickness left him feeling desolate. Legolas spoke as he knotted his braided hair on top of his head to keep it dry. “Can you stay with me while I bathe here?” Legolas tried to explain. “I am used to bathing in company but the hobbits are so private, washing only in their quarters, and I know no one else here.” 

With a smile Estel agreed.

As Estel settled into the water opposite Legolas, they sat in silence for a few minutes, then the Man began to speak. “When I was a young man in Rohan, at first I did not speak any Rohirric. Even in Gondor where I did speak the language, my accent was ‘wrong’. Some laughed at my pronunciation, at my limited words. Some laughed in malice but others were simply amused by the novelty. Even as a boy here in Imladris, they all frequently laughed at me. My being a young child was entertaining to them.

“Your highness,” Estel continued, “know that there is little ill-will to it. As you are aware, among Elves, novelty is rare. They have not seen or heard from Elves of the Woodland Realm for many years and they are simply curious. Do not take it to heart. In fact, the accent is charming.” 

Legolas hoped his smile conveyed his gratitude. Maybe they did laugh with ill-will and Estel was being generous, but he cared not, for he was Thranduilion.

“When the hobbits are otherwise occupied, often I see you walking alone. Would you train with me?” Estel asked.

Legolas hesitated. “I have never sparred with the broadsword. I am familiar only with my bow and my long knives. Perhaps in the next hundred years or so I will begin to train with the sword.” Legolas paused again, then decided to be completely canid. “Also, I have never trained with a mortal, even one with the blood of Numenor. We fight to kill in my homeland. You are - are not fast enough. I - I would be afraid to hurt you.” 

Estel did not seem to be offended by the rejection. When he smiled and nodded, there was no resentment on his face and Legolas sighed with relief.

Legolas knew it was embarrassing, too late to be now asking such a question after weeks of acquaintance, but Legolas still spoke out suddenly. “What shall I call you? In my home you were introduced to me as 'Estel', but the hobbits call you 'Strider', and Bilbo, Mithrandir and the Men call you 'Aragorn'. And I know you are also 'Elessar'.”

Estel laughed. “Well, I also heard _you_ called many names in your home; ‘Little Acorn’, ‘Little Leaf’ - “

Legolas blushed and slipped under the water. When he resurfaced Estel was still looking at him with good humour. “You may choose your form of address.” 

“May I call you 'Estel'?”

“Of course, your highness.” 

“No - “ Legoas held onto Estel’s arm for a moment then released it. “Just 'Legolas'.”

They sat in companionable silence. Legolas could feel the skin of his fingers begin to wrinkle.

Aragorn spoke into the gentle murmuring of the water. “The Lady Arwen - I did not grow up around her, we first met when I was a young man, just coming of age.” 

“How old are you now?” Legolas was curious.

“87.”

Legolas jolted in shock for a moment, then remembered his lessons on the blood of Numenor.

Aragorn looked amused. 

In the relaxed atmosphere, Legolas felt comfortable enough to ask Estel something which had been on his mind since Elrond had shared the information. Since Estel had introduced the topic he felt more at liberty to broach the subject. “Why does the Lady Arwen not sail?”

Estel’s face softened. He smiled a secret smile which had sorrow woven into it. After a pause he spoke. “We are promised.”

“Hentam,” whispered Legolas. Congratulations.

Legolas knew this was private information, not only due to the scandal inherent in a union formed between a mortal and an Elf, but because Estel had been raised among the Noldor. They were so secretive about these things and often the first one knew of a Noldor courtship was news of the marriage. Legolas felt honoured that he would trust him with this.

Legolas had had few important secrets. The freeing of the Dwarves was an experience he had shared with Tauriel who had now sailed and he could speak of it to no one. At least this was between him and Estel. The confidence Legolas had received prompted him to share a secret of his own.

Legolas knew instinctively that Estel would not divulge this. He considered for a final moment, then spoke. “I kissed Gimli.” _Kissed_ was all Legolas was willing to say. He was not ashamed of the encounter but the details of it felt too private to share.

Aragorn quirked a sceptical brow. Legolas and Gimli had not so much as exchanged a fond look during their time together in Imladris. 

“It was in Dale. Some time before I came to Imladris.” 

The scepticism cleared from Estel’s face then confusion took over.

Legolas recalled that for the Noldor, marriage was of the body. Even the Sindar court in the Woodland Realm subscribed to this school of thought to varying degrees. Legolas spoke to clarify.

“I am Silvan,” Legolas smiled. “I do not need to be wed to exchange affection.”

“Ah.” Aragorn smiled back. 

“Do you laugh at me?” 

“Peace, friend.”

Legolas’ voice turned bitter and he felt even some jealousy at his friend’s happiness. “Now that Gimli knows who my father is, he wants nothing to do with me.”

An idea came to Legolas. “Estel, please do not say the words ‘Mirkwood’, or ‘prison’ or the name ‘Thranduil’ near Gimli. They anger him. Please also ask this of the others.”

“You cannot hide your lineage.” Aragorn said this with a heaviness which told of his true age.

Legolas responded, “I am not ashamed of my father. I do not deny my parentage. Just - perhaps it would be best not to bring to mind his name. Just do not mention ‘the Elvenking’, or ‘Thranduil’ before Gimli. It is why he hates me now. I think.” That was all he could fathom which could have turned Gimli’s affectionate and tender arms into these cold and glaring eyes. “Even if you need to introduce me, just say ‘Legolas of the Woodland Realm’. Please. Do not even say ‘prince’, because then the next question will be ‘Oh, are you a son of Thranduil?’. Because, none of the other elven rulers on Arda have styled themselves ‘King’. They are content to call themselves Lord or Lady with their Rings of Power.” To himself he added, ‘the Rings grant them kingship without necessitating any title’.

Estel agreed to do as Legolas had requested. But Legolas had the feeling that Estel did not think it would make a difference and he seemed only to be humouring Legolas in acceding. 

*****

That afternoon Legolas was alone with Bilbo in his rooms. Bilbo was wearing a red waistcoat. All the outfits Legolas had seen him in before had been in muted hues so Legolas was taken by surprise by the vibrant colour. He looked sprightly and full of life today. Legolas sat on a low stool beside Bilbo. 

“Ah, here is a 1296 vintage laid down by my father. I had a few brought up from the Shire and I keep them for special occasions.”

Legolas was worried he had missed some element of protocol as he asked, “Is - is this a special occasion?” 

Bilbo smiled, not quite focusing. It seemed he may have had a glass or two before Legolas’ arrival. “Why, of course it is a special occasion! Thank you for saving me and my friends. You know, the barrel business. We would have been in a real pickle with those Orcs. I already said thank you at breakfast the other day, but today I remembered I had this wine, so - No more to be said. My life. You saved it, I’ve lived it well. Cheers.” And with that they clinked glasses. 

Bilbo stood, swaying slightly. “I've laid out cold chicken - I did not know what time you would come so I asked for a cold spread. Here is some raspberry jam, an apple tart. As much as the Elves have been good to me, and as much as she could turn a honeycomb sour with that nasty glare of hers, I must say no one makes an apple tart like Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. I do miss those. Would you like to look at my memoirs?” Bilbo asked, as he brought out his red book.

Legoas said, “I will look at the pictures but I would much prefer if you told me the stories yourself.” Courteously, Bilbo did not start at the very beginning this time. When they reached the portion of the tale set in ‘Mirkwood’, Legolas was glad to hear Bilbo’s perspective of the release of the Dwarves, and Legolas felt lightened to know how full of gratitude Bilbo was. Legolas stayed with Bilbo until it was dark, sincerely playing the part of an appreciative audience. 

Bilbo talked of the Shire and its woods and fields and little rivers. Legolas could hear the longing in his voice. This hobbit was too old to go adventuring again. Perhaps he was too frail to ever even see his Shire ever again. Legolas blurted it out before he had even realised. “How does it feel to be old?”

Bilbo took a moment to find the words. “I feel it in my heart. I feel like butter stretched over too much bread. I’ve lived happily ever after, to the end of my days. My only regret is the - friends I will not see any longer after I die. No one is clear where hobbits go, you see. And I’m not sure whether Mahal is one for unannounced visitors.” With those words, Bilbo dozed off to sleep in his chair. Legolas covered him with a blanket and sat with him until Frodo returned from his walk. With a grateful smile, Frodo squeezed Legolas’ shoulder and Legolas slipped out of the room.

How did hobbits function with that lack of knowledge hanging over their heads? To not know what happened when they died. Legolas did not particularly look forward to the pain of death if he were to be killed fighting, but he knew that if he were to be killed, he would go to the halls of Mandos. After a time, he would then be re-embodied to join his mother and those who had sailed West. Legolas had the certainty that he would never be apart from the ones he loved; any separation would be temporary. They knew what the West was like, from those who had sailed to Middle-earth from the West. Both Mithrandir and Galadriel had made the journey; Glorfindel had been there twice. It was no great mystery. 

For all he knew, for the hobbits and for the Men there was a nothingness. The thought frightened him and he shunted it aside. Surely Yavanna would have set aside a place for the hobbits, at least. Legolas did not like to dwell on such morbid thoughts, and pushed them away.

Buoyed by the gratitude on Bilbo’s face when he spoke about rescuing the Dwarves, Legolas thought he might try again to approach Glóin. After all, it had been several weeks since the Council and his initial anger at the sight of the sons of Thranduil may have died down. A similar gratitude to Bilbo’s may have taken its place. Legolas was disabused of the notion when he tried to approach the dining table where Glóin was seated one evening. Glóin menacingly hacked a small axe into the table and quickly, Legolas retreated.

The next day Legolas again allowed himself to think of his family for a few minutes. Legolas knew that he was not needed in the Woodland Realm though he knew he was loved, and he missed them. He missed his people. There he was treated with unfailing kindness and affection. Opherion had thrashed him before, and Legolas had been scolded several times. But the only time he had ever been shouted at to his face, with real acrimony, had been during combat; and with the Dwarves, on the day of his arrival in Imladris.

‘He is not your whore’. Legolas turned the unfamiliar Westron word over in his mind. _Whore_.

Suddenly the answer came to him. Pippin would know. 

That afternoon, as he sat with them on the grass, when there was a lull in the conversation, Legolas asked. “What does this word mean? ‘Whore’?”

The hobbits suddenly stilled and shifted uncomfortably. Sam spoke up. “Begging your pardon, your highness, it is not a word for polite company.”

Normally, Legolas would correct Sam. He had been trying to emphasise that Sam did not need to call him ‘your highness’, or any variant, not even ‘Sir’, but Sam persisted. Right now Legolas was too caught up in his thoughts to protest the appellation. 

‘He is not your whore’. So it was like _naug_. A bad word. He knew the Westron word 'fuck'. It was just a bad word and meant the speaker wished to exclaim. Like when he called out to Eru. He did not wish for the creator to appear, it was just a proclamation. 

Pippin piped up, “it’s about relations. Bedroom relations.” When Legolas did not say anything, Pippin spoke again loudly, discarding euphemisms. "Sex. You know what sex is, right?" Merry shoved him but Pippin ignored him and sniggered, earning himself a glare from Frodo which quickly sobered him.

“Oh!” Legolas felt the heat rise to his face. It continued down his neck to his chest. His ears burned and even his back tingled. His heart thrummed and he tried to focus on the blades of grass.

Frodo changed the subject quickly, but Legolas could not focus to follow the conversation and the ringing remained in his ears. After a few minutes he stood, and walked away to be alone with his thoughts.

The old Dwarf, Glóin, had been the one to say it. ‘He is not your whore’. So Gimli had spoken of their private encounter with his father. Maybe even with others. Tears stung the corners of Legolas’ eyes but he blinked them away. Was it that Gimli’s father had condemned the liaison, and Gimli had fallen in line? Surely, Gimli was not so weak willed? Legolas knew the importance of filial obedience, but there was a point where every person of honour needed to decide things for themselves. Gimli had seemed more resolute than to allow others to form his opinions for him, then meekly accept. And it had been anger in Gimli’s eyes. Not resignation. 

Perhaps it was that Dwarves were like the Noldor, only sharing physical intimacy once wed. Perhaps Glóin was angry at the lack of chastity. But if that were so, would Gimli have told his father? Perhaps he had confessed out of guilt? But if it had been forbidden to him, would Gimli have been so free with his favours, with a stranger, in an inn? Perhaps. But Gimli did not seem to be the type to vascillate. To act against his morals then to confess in guilt. If he were so conflicted, in all these long empty weeks would Gimli not have approached for another tryst? Gimli had not even looked at him. Even in this stubbornness, Gimli was consistent.

No. It must be as Legolas thought before; that the source of objection was his identity as Thranduilion. Legolas was being held guilty for the sins of his father.

As they made ready to leave Imladris, Legolas had tried once again to speak with Gimli.

It felt as if they had spent no time in Imladris, but more than one full cycle of the moon had passed. The eve of their departure was finally upon them.

Legolas had resolved to linger until the end of the final planning meeting and talk to Gimli privately. As they adjourned, Legolas intended to walk with Gimli and speak words of apology for his role in capturing the Company and for his complicity in his father’s imprisonment of the Dwarves. This was the source of Gimli’s ire. Surely the words of apology would work towards quenching the fire of his anger?

Once again, Gimli’s response had left Legolas reeling. Gimli had hissed, “an attack of conscience is not enough to overcome your foul nature!”

 _Foul nature_ \- Elbereth! - this Dwarf hated him. Perhaps he really did now feel regretful of their encounter. Legolas was sorry for that, as he himself would always cherish it. Legolas did not wish to escalate the situation. If the Dwarf had resolved to hate him then Legolas would make every effort to keep out of his way, as difficult as that would be, since they were to journey together. 

Stiff-necked Dwarf.

Legolas could not see where he was going as he retraced his steps to his room. He wiped roughly at the tears but by the time of their final evening meal in Imladris, he had regained his composure. He was Thranduilion. He must not forget that. The Dwarf would not let him forget it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the movie (I haven’t cross-checked the book dialogue) when they meet Eomer (when they are looking for Pippin & Merry) Aragorn introduces them. He says “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, this is Gimli, son of Glóin, and this is Legolas of the Woodland Realm.” There is a meme which sparked my imagination - it has Legolas saying “what am I - A bastard?” It got me thinking. Aragorn is not careless, he is careful with titles so that form of introduction was deliberate - what is the reason? My take was that Legolas asked him to not mention Thranduil, à la Fawlty Towers ‘Don’t mention the war.’


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you lovely readers for reading. Thanks to my betas for noticing things I don't!
> 
> I have linked to a 100 word drabble which covers Gimli’s prayer in the story - Link [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26388016) and in the story*. 
> 
> Khazad-dûm = Moria

After Gimli’s departure, Glóin would stay here with the Elves until he could travel to the Shire. Glóin had reframed it as ‘keeping watch over Bilbo’, who was still under Erebor’s protection. In reality Glóin was now too old to guard anyone, he no longer had the reflexes. He and Gimli both knew it, but nothing would be said of it. Glóin pottered around the room as they finalised the preparations for Gimli’s pack for the journey tomorrow. As Glóin waxed Gimli’s cloak to reinforce the waterproofing, Gimli watched him fondly.

Gimli had always had a very open relationship with his parents, but even so, some topics were still taboo, such as Glóin’s decline. Another topic out of bounds for discussion was how Óin, Glóin’s brother, had been too proud to ask for help in the settlement of Erud Luin, where many of the refugees of Erebor had gathered. 

For as long as Gimli could remember, Óin had provided medical assistance to the penniless refugees. He would ask them to pay ‘when they could’. Some would hand over portions of grain, others would press into his palm a treasured heirloom, despite Óin’s protests. Óin said that his oath as a healer meant that he would not withhold treatment from those in need, and furthermore, he would not take payment from refugees with no ability to pay. Many had left Erebor that fateful day with only what they wore, not having had time to even grab hold of an axe. 

A large portion of the money Óin _did_ receive, went into purchasing necessary tinctures, powders and assorted medical supplies from Mannish apothecaries. The daily stream of patients meant that he had not the time to take up extra work with Men, mucking out stables and tinkering as most of the others did. Óin’s wife, Guzur had been a dwarrowling when Erebor fell. She had suffered from ash in the lung from that day. She had never fully recovered and had been frail, further limiting the time Óin felt he could spend away from home. 

Gimli remembered the days when he had hardly any beard, just fluff, and his mother would make a game of it as they sorted through the scraps the Mannish farmer set out for the pigs. They would take the less spoiled heads of cabbage, root vegetables and other items home with them. Glóin lived at the opposite end of Ered Luin and sometimes several weeks passed before he could make time to see his brother. 

One day, word had come that Óin’s wife had died. Many with ash in the lung did not not live out their days, but her end had been hastened by poor nutrition. She would often say that she had already eaten when Óin came home late in the night, after rounds with his patients. Óin himself would often be pressed to accept their meagre hospitality on such visits, and fell soundly asleep before he heard the rumbling of her belly beside him in their bed. Óin had laughed grimly at her funeral service, saying, “the children of the cobbler run barefoot, and the wife of the physician finds an early grave.” Glóin had blamed himself for not checking on them. Glóin said that he should have noticed her belt notched tighter, that he should have, that he should have...

Her cousins Bifur, Bofur and Bombur had joined the Company saying Dwarves should not be forced to live in the conditions of Ered Luin and that they needed a homeland. They had not blamed Óin, but Guzur’s laughing face was so similar to Bofur’s, even down to the dimples, that Gimli believed that part of the reason Óin had been persuaded to join Balin’s attempt to reclaim Khazad-dûm was for the opportunity to stop being haunted by the ghost of his wife in her cousin’s appearance. Now Óin, and Khazad-dûm were no longer discussed.

At the bottom of the pack Gimli had placed his fine tunic of Durin blue, which he would wear if they were in a situation requiring formal dress. At the top, he placed his now threadbare scarf, which had been knitted by Ori. He did not like to wear it too often, for fear of wearing it out, but one of Ori’s last exhortations as he had left for Khazad-dûm had been ‘don’t you dare forget to wear your scarf above ground when it is cold!’ and Gimli never failed to travel with it. 

Glóin packed the remainder of the cram, and dried meat into a side pocket of Gimli’s pack. The Steward of Rivendell had already packed full provisions for the journey into the saddlebag which would be carried by the pony the hobbits had brought with them. With mixed rations Glóin was not worried about the safety of the food.

Glóin broke the silence. “Mind you’re not led by your breeches, lad.”

In response Gimli simply nodded. 

Gimli’s bed-sport with the Elf was another thing not spoken of. Even on the long journey to Rivendell from Erebor, not once had the topic been mentioned by any in the party. They all knew Glóin’s temper. Gimli had not lain with another since Dale and he had no desire to. He was not curious about the Elves of Rivendell and not a one of them had given him ‘the look’ in any case. He had been burned once before and besides, like in any small community, word of any such ‘companionship’ would reach Bilbo through the gossip-mill and thus reach Glóin. He would not put Glóin through that again, especially not in this Elvish place. 

Nori had warned Gimli off Men of Gondor, such as those who had travelled with Boromir and were in residence during the preparations for the Fellowship’s departure. Aragorn was promised, and did not spark Gimli’s interest anyhow. The hobbits - no. 

And of course not the Elf. 

So Gimli had dispelled such urges with physical conditioning, and washing with cold water often. Even if he had wanted a tryst with any of the Fellowship, or the Dwarves who had travelled with them, such encounters could cause disharmony when travelling and were best avoided.

Gimli closed his eyes and set about combing, beard and hair.   
Seven strokes of the comb for the seven tribes of the Dwarves.   
Seven more strokes for the seven lives of Durin the Deathless.   
Fourteen strokes, for the fourteen who had secured Erebor. 

O Kheled-zâram fair and wonderful.

Ten stars in the constellation ‘Durin’s crown’ till he wakes, ten strands in the braid that marked him as a Longbeard,   
Durin’s folk, tied with a leather thong of Durin blue. 

In this way, reciting the remembrances of his people, he completed his prayers, and braiding, which were one in the same.

Gimli thought on Tharkun’s words once again. ‘Legolas knows nothing of Dwarves’. Presumably that meant he knew nothing of Dwarvish customs. So, Legolas had not understood the intimacy of touching Gimli’s beard. But the Elf had been so reverent, surely he had known? Regardless of whether he had known or not, Gimli still felt diminished somehow. Their intimacy and connection had been made into a commodity with the Elf’s coin. 

Gimli held onto his pain and to his pride as both protection and balm. If he softened, if he listened to the Elf and accepted the false, shy smiles, Gimli would open himself up to being hurt again. Whenever the urge came upon him to relent, he need only recall the humiliation and pain of betrayal. The Elf had tried again to speak to him that very day, and had even tried to conjure false tears, but Gimli had held firm. Gimli had never seen Legolas go so far as to pretend to cry and it had unsettled him. In the moment, Gimli had wanted to reach out, but was now glad he had turned away.

As Gimli waxed his boots, the thoughts of Legolas led Gimli to think of Kili and his Elf. Another taboo subject. Gimli had been doubly related to the princes Fili and Kili, as their sire had been Gimli’s mother’s brother. From Glóin’s side came the claim of being of the line of Durin, a claim which held for Gimli, as Glóin’s son, regardless of which family line he took. 

Gimli was always uncharacteristically melancholy the night before travelling. He thought of Ori and wondered if he would see him on this journey. Before the Company had reclaimed Erebor, some had tried to discourage Gimli’s friendship with Ori, calling him ‘unsuitable company’. Ori’s mother had not been of the line of ‘Ri’ and had not publicly named the sire or sires of her children. There was speculation that the ‘Ri’ suffix was not of the obscure line of ‘Ri’ but was rather a contraction, as was often used in cases of illegitimacy, of the line of ‘Rin’. Some gossips stated that a family connection was the only way that a notorious thief like Nori had been permitted to join the Company. Ori had been genuine in his distress at his ignorance of his parentage, but Gimli had sometimes wondered how much Nori and Dori had known, but chose not to discuss with Ori.

Thorin himself was not argued to have been their sire. Dori was older than him and Thorin was too young to have been Nori's sire, having been only twenty-four years old when Erebor fell. Those tumultuous early days of exile saw many ‘irregular’ liaisons, and those were the years in which Nori had been born. In exile, Thorin was known to be celibate and Frerin had been only forty-eight when _he_ had died, the year after Ori was born. Technically, one _could_ sire early, but physical desire normally only awoke around the time one came of age, give or take a decade. 

In some, physical desire never awoke, and often they would become Craft-wed. Some found refuge in craft after a broken heart, or unrequited love. Yet others did feel desire, and had suffered no heartbreak, yet simply chose to devote their lives to their craft. Gimli did not think he was among those. He hoped one day to find someone to share his life with. Perhaps after this quest, if he survived, he would look in earnest for someone with whom to share his life. 

The other taboo between himself and his father was any mention of the Life-Debt owed to the Elf. Gimli had tried to speak of it on that last evening, but a fist pounded onto the table had reiterated that Glóin would not entertain the topic.

For the final evening meal, Glóin had sat beside Bilbo, who had made the effort to come down to the main dining hall. The hobbits were all present, and sitting with them was the Elf. Every time Gimli glanced over, the Elf was looking down at his plate, he was not even singing today.

The day had been trying. After the final planning session, Legolas had drawn Gimli aside, saying he wished to forget the past. So, that interfering Tharkun had told Legolas about the Life-Debt after all. _Fuck_

And the Elf had counted the lives of the Company as valueless, discarding the Debt without asking for payment. 

As Gimli tried to force down his meal, he had growled low and only Gloin and Tharkun who flanked him, could hear. “It better not start any more trouble with me tonight. Sodding prince of Mirkwood.”

“He,” said Tharkun pointedly, “has been nothing but pleasant to you, as far as I have seen.”

“Tharkun, _he_ called me a naug!”

From across the table came a gasp, then a protest. “Oh! I did not!”

Maybe this time, Gimli could publicly catch the Elf in a lie. Not shouting, using all his control, Gimli modulated his voice into a tone of forced civility. “You have heard the saying, and you started to say it at the Council. ‘Stone-hearted’, ‘Stone-hearted naugrim, hard-hearted naugs’. You started the saying!” Towards the end, Gimli’s control slipped, and conversations in the room paused as some paused their meals and turned to look at him.

Legolas seemed to look dismayed for a moment, then appeared to steady himself.

Softly, Legolas said ‘but I did not finish it’. 

Yet again, Gimli had to walk away before he lost his temper and the Elf succeeded in its plan to have him explode in anger and be removed from the Fellowship before they even left Rivendell. 

Gimli could not settle, and after Glóin was in bed he decided to wander the paths of Rivendell, this place which he would leave virtually unexplored. At this hour Rivendell was mostly deserted. In the cold, winter air, Gimli walked and meandered as he had not done in all his time here. Using his stone-sense, he followed a seam of rock until it left the paved areas and it led him to a rocky outcrop. Gimli looked up and with his darksight, could see it was a very easy and gentle climb. 

He continued to follow the seam, and as he had half suspected, it opened up into a small hot pool, bubbling and sighing, hidden among the foliage.

Every muscle in Gimli’s body was knotted with tension. He knew that within Rivendell they were safe, but it was after a moment of hesitation that he removed his armour. Gimli carefully piled his clothes on the ground and climbed into the soothing water, but kept hold of a knife. The water was deep, but the gradient was stepped, so Gimli sat at the outer edge, submerged to the shoulders. He tied his hair out of the water with a leather thong, and similarly tucked away his beard, then leant back and tried to relax. 

He looked at the stars and knew that he would sleep little this night. When he returned to his room, Glóin would probably wake and come to sit by Gimli’s bed on this last night in Rivendell. The next time he met his father might be in the Halls of Mahal. 

Armed with Glóin’s axe to replace his own, which had shattered, Gimli would meet the road before them and face the world. Gimli prayed that he would carry himself with honour, as he overcame the challenges ahead. 

  
  
  


*** (Legolas POV) ***

Time moved differently when he was among mortals. Legolas had always been aware that the span of their days on Arda was finite, but now it felt so real. Now he counted down the hours whenever he was apart from the hobbits, from - the others, almost as if he could see the moments rushing past, like sand in a timer. Every moment felt precious and he did not wish to miss a single one. 

Legolas remembered a period of time when he had been a small elfling, and before the Shadow had truly held sway in the Woodland Realm. 

Legolas had spent hours in the forest and chosen to watch a small clearing; he had watched the winter bareness give way to spring buds, then the swelling and ripening of summer and autumn. He watched the birds court, build nests and rear young till the chicks flew away. His brothers and father had come to keep him company and they had built him a flet. Various courtiers also took turns to spend time with him there. Food had been brought out to him and all he had done was watch. In those days the spiders had still been small and could easily be subdued with a spear. For two cycles of the seasons, Legolas spent his time there, until one day he decided he had had his fill and returned to the palace. It had not seemed like a long time. But now, in Imladris, even meal times seemed unending. Legolas ate quickly, that he might leave and be away from Gimli’s antipathy.

That evening, after the feast, Legolas had walked with Bilbo to his rooms and had taken the opportunity to say goodbye. Bilbo had in one hand a cane, and with the other, gripped Legolas’ forearm for support. As they walked slowly, Legolas had fought the urge to simply pick up and carry the tiny, frail hobbit. Only care for Bilbo’s dignity prevented him from acting. Legolas had left him all alone in his little room. It was littered with papers and pens and pencils and Bilbo was in his chair, before a small bright fire. He looked very old, but also peaceful.

Sleepily, Bilbo had spoken. “Do you know, I am one hundred and twenty-nine? And in one year more, if I am spared, I shall equal the Old Took. I should like to beat him; but we shall see.”

So, this would be the end of all his mortal friends. Would Aragorn become like the old men of Dale? Walking with a stick, and shaking? Would Pippin collapse into rheumy-eyed decay? Would Gimli crumble into trembling old age? No, surely not that being of stone and solidity. Gimli would never be reduced to gossamer strands like Bilbo. Legolas did not know how soon those changes would happen. He did not know how soon they would happen to any of his friends here and he was afraid to ask. Ironically, though he donned the guise of an old Man, only Mithrandir was safe from these changes. 

They did not have _time_ for Gimli’s anger. Legolas wished for it to end, but it could not be forced. 

After leaving Bilbo’s room, Legolas decided to walk and clear his head. He would not sing with the Noldor this final night in Imladris. Even their singing to the stars was restrained, and lacked that resonant element which he needed. Legolas would rather be alone with his thoughts.

His bags had been packed for him and his travelling clothes laid out. In the morning he would leave this place and journey to satisfy his honour and defend his friend, Frodo. Yes, his friend. Legolas felt calm and determined. 

The pang of hurt he pushed to one side. Gimli refused to be reasoned with. The Dwarf chose to hate Legolas. All Legolas could do was to avoid him as much as possible. 

As Legolas reached the pool, he stood transfixed. He was deep in shadow but it could be only one person. The steam rose in lazy plumes from the warm water, illuminated by the moonlight. Gimli’s back was towards Legolas and his hair was knotted on the top of his head, and his beard was in a similar knot. Gimli’s broad shoulders were partly out of the water and he was leaning against the edge of the pool, in repose. 

He knew Gimli’s feelings towards him but that did not stop his body from responding to the sight. Legolas felt a familiar heat wash over him and strain at his leggings. Legolas wished that he could look, could touch, but he was not welcome here. Gimli had not stirred, and on silent footsteps Legolas melted back into the shadows. 

Legolas knew he should get some rest that night, but he could not. He could not sing, he could not be still. He sat in his suite and felt the emptiness and loneliness around him. Retreating to his bed, his hands moved of their own accord and Legolas writhed in the silken sheets. Before him, imaginings danced in his head of what would have transpired had Legolas slipped into that pool, beside Gimli. He imagined Gimli’s thick, short fingers around him and that beard pressed against him. When Legolas found his release he trembled at the intensity of it, then fell into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Óin having his family name the same as his first name, is rather like people who are called ‘James James’, for example.
> 
> I’ve fudged Ori’s age and date of birth a bit to force the dates to work. According to canon he is at least 50 years older than Fili and Kili but I have put them closer in age but also as being born the year Frerin died. Don’t use a calculator because it will not add up.
> 
> 'Craft-wed' - I’m not sure where I first came across the phrase, but basically, it means ‘married to their work’.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my betas Aylwyyn228 and Aquamarina (acdaniels) for making my drafts better! Thanks also to the regular reviewers for the morale boost! I really look forward to and enjoy your comments. Feedback and concrit welcome!

In the weeks during which the Fellowship had waited in Rivendell, the Elves and the Rangers had ridden far abroad and scattered many false trails. The time was now upon them to depart.

In the morning stillness of the courtyard, as they waited for the others, Aragorn had approached Gimli. As Glóin was interrogating the Steward and inspecting the saddlebags on the pony, that Man had had the nerve to lecture Gimli. Speaking gravely, as if he thought he was imparting something of value, Aragorn had intoned, “Gimli, in the history between the Dwarves and the Elves, I know that there have been wrongs on both sides...” and had carried on in that vein, talking about ‘getting along’ and ‘being respectful’. It should not have been a surprise that the Elf now had him wrapped around his little finger. Aragorn practically  _ was _ an Elf, having been fostered by them. He was not above a union with his own foster sister, the child of Elrond, yet had the audacity to lecture Gimli on right and wrong. 

This Man was no king of his. Gimli owed him nothing. Once he finished speaking, Gimli did not acknowledge him and went over to Glóin. 

They had risen before first light, and in the suite Glóin had made some final additions to Gimli’s travel gear and shared final words of advice.

“Make sure you keep some cram in the vest. Don’t eat it unless there is nothing else. It will keep for a good couple of years.” Speaking with grave eyes, it was clear that in Glóin's mind, he was back in Mirkwood, lost and starving in that darksome forest. 

“Take the rest of the kafe, you can share that with the others in the mornings, until it runs out.” Glóin then took his own pouch of pipeweed and poured it into Gimli’s, filling it to the top. 

“What about you, adad?”

“Don’t you worry about me, lad. I will order up a whole case of Old Toby in the Shire, and have it sent on home. We can smoke it together when you get back.” Glóin held Gimli and stroked his hair, then tugged on Gimli’s braid denoting his lineage of Li. “Your mother will have something to say to me if you are away too long, so get this done then hurry home, lad.” 

Gimli’s hair was bound in a simple travel braid with the Li embellishment but with no adornments. All his beads were safely stashed in a pocket of his undervest. Gimli’s beard was woven in plain Warrior’s braids. Travellers would keep their Family Line braid in, so that if they died on their journey, any Dwarf who saw the body would know which family to send the bad news to. If it was not possible to arrange for a decent stone burial, the braid would be cut off and sent to be interred in stone, while the body was burned. Tharkûn knew what to do, but Gimli hoped it would not come to that. Gimli had heard the stories countless times; with his will and his staff the Wizard had split rock; and despite what he said to Pippin he  _ could _ summon the Windlords to his aid. In all likelihood, Tharkûn would be the last one left standing. 

As Glóin released him from the hug, Gimli was aware this was the last chance to speak privately. “Adad, the Life-Debt -”

“Don’t.” Glóin hissed. He turned his back and then continued to speak, now in a forced, brittle-bright tone as Gimli left the suite for the final time.

That Elf. The Life-Debt was the only thing that bound them now. That was all they were left with. The thrumming of possibility and expectation they had in Dale was gone, leaving only a bitter taste. Everything between them was a ruin. The Elf had destroyed it. Gimli had not felt again that jolt he had experienced when seeing him again at the Council. That feeling - that the ground had been torn away from beneath his boots. In fairness, Gimli had not looked at him again fully since that day and Gimli asked Mahal to help him endure, as he journeyed beside this Elf. 

Gimli was touched to see Bilbo up at dawn to bid the party farewell. He walked down with the other hobbits, leaning against Lord Elrond and was bundled up against the cold. His breath formed clouds in the chill winter dawn. 

Bilbo had brought with him nine handkerchiefs and pressed one into each of their hands as they took their leave of him. Bilbo even had one for Boromir, who had kept to himself in Rivendell. Gimli had played with his in his pocket after embracing Bilbo, blinking rapidly and not wanting to use it so quickly after receiving it. “You’re a good lad,” Bilbo had whispered absently while patting Gimli’s hand. Gimli did not think he would ever see Bilbo again. Gimli carefully embraced him again, not wanting his armour to bruise him, then turned to face Glóin.

Gimli nodded at his father, who nodded back. That morning, before Gimli had put on his armour, Glóin had pulled Gimli into a crushing embrace. “My little pebble. Mahal bless you and keep you. May he guide your feet and clear your path.” Now, as the Fellowship walked through the gates of Rivendell and into the wilds, Gimli turned to look back. Glóin stood apart and looked like a statue at the gates of Erebor, his face stoic and ready to face his own challenge of being a Dwarf alone amongst Elves.

They left Rivendell on the day of the Yule festival. Had Elrond intended it as some sort of symbolism of hope as the winter days grew longer after the solstice? Dwarrow did not hold to following the sky to determine one’s plans but Gimli conceded that symbolism aside, they had needed to wait for Frodo to heal and be strong enough again to travel after his injury from the Morgul blade.

As they passed through the gates of Rivendell, the hobbits ate the simple breakfast prepared for them to eat as they walked. Merry wondered out loud if the Steward had packed a Yuletide feast for them in their provisions. Tharkûn pointed out that their final banquet at Rivendell, less than twelve hours ago, had been a seven course meal based on a traditional Shire Yuletide feast. One of the Hobbits muttered, “it does not count if it is not on the day.”

Tharkûn had anticipated this issue and had insisted that they exchange gifts on Yuletide Eve in their rooms, otherwise they would have brought bulky and impractical gifts with them into the wild. Their gifts to each other were to remain in Rivendell and would be sent on to the Shire when possible. Gimli had heard Tharkûn exhorting the hobbits not to ask for gifts from Gimli and Glóin, from the Elves or from any of the Men of Gondor.

Gimli knew Glóin had spent time making gifts for the hobbits and would give Bilbo his today. It was a game board and Glóin had said that hoped it would take Bilbo’s mind off the departure of his ward and of the others. Gimli knew though that it was as much a gift to Glóin himself. 

Gimli was no longer a dwarrowling, and when they had celebrated Durin’s day on the road on the way to Rivendell, the only concession their group had made to the day had been extra rations, and some sweetmeats they had bought from a Mannish place two days earlier. They had wrapped them in waxed parchment and they were almost fresh when they had eaten them. As he watched their excited faces, and listened to the Yuletide songs they sang, once again, Gimli had to remind himself not to get too attached to the hobbits and to focus on his duty of keeping them safe.

The first day out of Rivendell was the same as with any caravan of Gimli’s experience. They set a pace, there were complaints about the road, someone started a song. Step by step, Rivendell shrank into the distance.

The Elf walked at the front of the column with Aragorn, arrogant princeling, trying to make himself their leader. As he glared at the Elf’s back, Gimli recalled what the Elf had said to him the previous day; “we should leave the past behind.” It was obvious that Tharkûn had spoken to him of the Life-Debt and that Legolas wished to discharge the Life-Debt with no consideration. He was openly declaring the lives of the strangers he had saved, Dwarves, to be worthless. Gimli ground his teeth together, then tried to distract himself by watching as Merry and Pippin ambled along as if it were a pleasant excursion. All the hobbits picked winter mushrooms as they went, and tied them in a bundle in their handkerchiefs. Despite what they had already experienced with the Black Riders, Gimli did not think they truly understood the peril they may face.

But Gimli’s thoughts still strayed back to the Elf’s words. The Elf wished for Gimli to ‘leave the past behind’; to behave as a suckling babe, to forget and to smile when there had been no real acknowledgement of wrong. He spoke only of Thranduil’s trespasses and imprisonment. As if that would dispel the deceit which was at the core of their encounter in Dale. Even if it had been on Thranduil’s orders, the Elf did not have the courage to acknowledge the wrong. Nay! Gimli may have made mistakes, but he was not born yesterday and would not be hoist twice in the same trap. 

For close to an hour Frodo walked by Gimli’s side and seemed to want to say something to Gimli, but held back. Frodo was a thoughtful sort, and Gimli doubted whether he had been fully ensnared by the Elf. Perhaps he had been sent with some sort of message. But, being the sensible hobbit that he was, knew better than to try to sway Gimli.

Gimli had no one to talk to of this, and it weighed him down, but he could not open up to Frodo to discuss his feelings. The damage the Elf had caused to Gimli’s pride and to his reputation was one thing, but there was another deeper, more intimate wound he would not disturb. He knew Elves and Dwarves did not have romances. He had not wanted one, he had not expected one. But for the Elf to turn the encounter they had shared into an item for trade, like a bundle of wool, or a sackful of coal - Gimli did not know if he would ever recover from that hurt. And not unlike a battlefield injury, left hidden and untended, it was now festering and poisoning everything. Without a medic, one would try and make do, and without his usual confidants, Gimli would simply bury the feelings of hurt and betrayal, of pain and disappointment. Like any wound, the pain would either subside as the injury healed or kill him, and by Mahal’s balls, he was not about to let an Elf kill any part of him.

At Tharkûn’s instruction, the Elf took the vanguard and Gimli could feel his beady eyes boring into his back, plotting and scheming. Gimli made sure to stay between Frodo and the Elf as they walked. 

They had decided in the planning sessions that once they were several days away from Rivendell’s borders, they would travel under the cover of darkness and rest by day to avoid detection. Having previously used this method of travel in the past with Nori and Dwalin, and also having superior night-vision as a Dwarf, Gimli would not be excessively discomfited but the hobbits would struggle. Even now, as they travelled by day, they kept tripping over roots in the path and by late afternoon of the first day, the hobbits were almost collapsing with exhaustion from the pace Aragorn had set. Eventually a rhythm was established, and finally, after several more hours of walking, Tharkûn took pity and called a halt. 

During the sessions, it had become clear that Tharkûn had been a part of all of their childhoods, to varying degrees. Gimli wondered whether the old Wizard felt like a teacher taking a class on an outing. 

Boromir did not seem to be very fond of Tharkûn. Reading between the lines, Gimli had gained the impression that because Boromir was not as studious and bookish as his younger brother Faramir, in his youth he and Tharkûn had butted heads during lessons. When the age of compulsory tutorials was past, it had seemed that Boromir had avoided both Tharkûn and the library in favour of more active pursuits.

The Elf seemed cordial enough with Tharkûn but he did not sense much warmth between them. He would have dismissed that as Elves simply being naturally aloof, but Legolas’ interactions with Aragorn and the hobbits were friendly and relaxed. Gimli was treated by the Elf like a boulder in a mineshaft; if it was unsafe to destroy it, and one was not able to remove it, one ignored it. 

At the end of that first day, as they set up camp for the night Gimli overheard Legolas ask Aragorn, “Will you join my prayers?”

Aragorn had responded, “though I was raised among Elves, I am still a Man and give thanks in my own way.”

With that, as the others began preparations for the evening meal, Legolas sat with arms outstretched above his head. He swayed and hummed softly, and it felt as if everything around him grew still, and drew towards him. Gimli was not unmoved by the prayers, but he was glad that Mahal was more sensible about these things. Mahal did not require non-stop caterwauling, nor endless displays of praise. At least the Elf had the sense not to be noisy about it in the wild. Mahal let his people get on with their lives, and if they managed an offering every couple of years, Mahal seemed to be pleased enough with that. 

When in Erebor, sometimes Gimli would stack prayer rocks in thanks, or in petition, but he never did so when he was on the road. That would simply create a trail by which one might be followed. As they ate their evening meal, Gimli gently placed three small stones on top of each other, then took them back down. He did not even know what he was asking for. 

Gimli took the second watch after Tharkûn. Even while Tharkûn stood guard, Gimli had not dared to sleep fully. He had lain in a light warrior’s rest with his eyes closed and his hand upon a throwing axe. Perhaps the Elf would take its chance now that they were in the wild.

Finally, after long hours, Tharkûn tapped him on the shoulder, and Gimli relieved him of his watch. 

As Gimli walked across the camp, he looked over towards Legolas who lay flat on his back with his face turned towards Gimli. He stared, unblinking. Under his breath Gimli harrumphed, “rude fellow.” 

Gimli stood by a log for a few minutes, noting the muted, night sounds. Nothing out of the ordinary. He looked around. Gimli took a few moments to prepare his pipe, then he settled by the banked fire and began his watch, scanning the treeline. They had arranged for the four hobbits to sleep in the middle, flanked on four sides by the others, with the last one remaining awake to keep watch. Gimli turned to face the sleeping group and looked back over at Legolas who wa-

“Oh, fuck!”

Gimli stood up.

“Oh, Mahal! The Elf is dead!”

The camp roused. The hobbits gripped their short swords. Gandalf’s staff lit the clearing to the sight of Boromir and Aragorn ready to attack any intruders, broadswords in hand.

Legolas himself sprang up with a knife in his hand, and in the next moment was in a defensive crouch. 

Tharkûn came billowing towards him, robes flapping. “What are you playing at, Gimli!”

Gimli’s heart was still thudding and he felt light-headed. “But his eyes! They were unblinking, open. He had not moved. I thought - he - He looked dead!”

“Fool of a Longbeard!” Tharkûn was not bothering to keep his voice down. “Both Elves and Wizards take our rest with our eyes open!”

“But, I -”

No. Gimli remembered the bed in Dale. Legolas had been sprawled, with his eyes closed. His lips gently parted. The sheen of sweat on his brow. Gimli would never forget that sight. When he was milking Gimli for information, Legolas had later nuzzled into Gimli’s shoulder and again fallen asleep,  _ with his eyes closed _ and a shadow of a smile on his face. His eyes had been closed. 

The others cast alternately sleepy or angry glances at Gimli and settled back into their bedrolls in the hope of snatching a few more hours of rest. 

Legolas lay  back down, turning his back towards Gimil. 

When Aragorn had come to take his watch, Gimli had almost shrunk back at the grim look he had given. ‘No king of mine’ Gimli reminded himself. 

By the time the sky turned from deepest blue to grey, all members of the Fellowship were awake. Sam made sausages and Gimli brewed kafe for them all. Gimli made sure when he was handing across the cups, to spill most of the Elf’s share. At Tharkûn’s sharp look, Gimli felt his cheeks heat. He knew he was being petty and that such a gesture was unbecoming of a Lord of Erebor, but Gimli could not resist the pettiness.  Tharkûn looked like he wanted to say something, then thought better of it. Yes, Glóin had spoken of travelling with the Wizard, and his bizarre manner of sleeping, but how was Gimli supposed to have known the Elf did it also? The Elf had made him look stupid. How could Gimli have been expected to know that?

Beneath his irritation, was something he could not quite dispel. He  _ almost _ managed to forget the pang of dismay, the hollowness he had felt in that instant when he thought the Elf was dead. Almost.

They all finished eating and were soon ready to depart. 

The Elf sat chatting to the hobbits as they loaded the pony.

“Time to go, Legolas,” called Tharkûn.

The Elf smiled and nodded.

“What about your pack?” asked Merry.

The Elf’s face registered confusion.

They were all now curious as to what would be the reply.

“Oh, I thought someone else…” his voice trailed off. His cheeks were flushed, and he clumsily rushed to gather handfuls of his sleeping roll, trying to stuff it into his pack, which failed to close. His bedroll was a bulky, untidy bundle. He looked close to tears and Aragorn came to assist him.

_ That manipulative little shit. _ Gimli knew Elves were not clumsy, everyone knew this. Just another of his little games. And yet again, the false tears of the spoiled dwarrowling. Bombur’s second youngest was almost of age now, yet he could still cry on command, normally when asked to do something that inconvenienced him.

The next day passed without further incident. Grudgingly, Gimli acknowledged Aragorn’s skill in leading the group and travelling the wilds. Gimli was the only one with experience of leading inexperienced travellers though, and with his shorter legs, soon  _ he _ was allowed to set the pace for the hobbits. In the sessions he had devised the sleeping arrangements and watch schedules to maximise their safety, but as time passed he grew more concerned.

Tharkûn, Aragorn, Gimli, Boromir and Legolas were to be on watch through the long winter hours of the night, as the hobbits slept. The hobbits were spared a watch and were allowed to rest but still Gimli made sure to be awake when he heard the changing of the watch and when the Elf would be on watch alone. He held a dagger as he rested with his eyes closed, listening and stealing glances at Legolas, who did nothing more than hum to himself and sit still until he was relieved of his watch.  _Biding his time and plotting_ , thought Gimli, as he finally drifted off to steal a few hours of light sleep. Gimli was surprised that Legolas had not yet made his move after several days. The Elf was waiting for them to grow complacent and would strike then, or perhaps in the midst of an attack by wargs or orcs and take advantage of the confusion. _ Gimli would be ready.  _

The Elves were leaving Middle-Earth. What did they care for Arda’s misfortunes? They would leave the troubles of this world behind. Why would the Elf risk his life on this journey? It was clear that he wished only for an opportunity to seize the Ring of Power. Why would the others not see this?

The Elf wore no armour apart from the embossed leather bracers on his forearms and vambraces on his shoulders, and he slept with these on. At the first chance, Gimli knew the Elf planned to take the Ring and run. He needed no heavy armour for that. Gimli made sure to always remain in his own full armour, so that he would not lose any time trying to dress. It was uncomfortable to sleep thus, but he had known he would need to make sacrifices on this journey. 

Gimli aimed to stay awake, with a knife in one hand, a throwing axe in the other, so that if Legolas moved against the hobbits Gimli would be on him in an instant. But the Elf never seemed to sleep fully and Gimli was growing exhausted.

On the third day Gimli muttered to himself, “will this Elf never sleep properly?”

Tharkûn answered him in an irritated tone. “But he does. I already told you Elves rest with open eyes.”

“Why change his manner of sleeping all of a sudden?  He slept normally before,” Gimli grumbled.

Tharkûn frowned at Gimli but said nothing. Aragorn glanced at Gimli sharply, then looked away quickly, stroking his beard - scraggly, pitiful beard that it was.

After several moonless nights, Gimli realised the light he thought was moonlight on Legolas was actually coming from the Elf himself. The faint glow looked like the light of a crescent moon shining through a window - faint, but completely different from true darkness. Gimli wondered that a face could look so innocent, so  _ sweet _ while harbouring so many evil intentions. Gimli would not be taken in. 

It was safest not to look at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the book they travelled at night when they left Rivendell, but I wanted to let them travel by day for a bit first.
> 
> What gifts do you think the hobbits exchanged? Shout out your thoughts and any other feedback in the comments!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following paragraph is a collaboration with a lovely reader, BubblySpiral.
> 
> Gandalf found Merry making a mouth-harp for Pippin, ‘to give to him on Yule’. With a sinking feeling, Gandalf decided to go through Merry and Pippin’s travel-packs, not trusting their assurances ‘not to worry, Gandalf, only the bare necessities there!’. He found all sorts of ‘non-journey approved’ objects, topped off with cakes and pastries from Rivendell’s kitchens, leaving no room for most of the things he had told them to pack. One of them had made a proto whoopee-cushion to take with them on the journey. He remembered to ask them to empty out their pockets, and recovered a roughly whittled flute. ‘I’m too old for this nonsense’, Gandalf thought to himself, but he still smiled, as delighted (we can’t let them go to waste!), Merry and Pippin ate their way through the bag full of pastries. He just shook his head politely as he rejected the offer of a tart covered in lint. He felt sick at the thought of offering up these innocents in the battle against evil, but it was for the greater good. 

A servant woke Legolas at dawn and helped to dress him. Legolas had slept with his travel braids in place, so that this stranger would not see him unbound. He smoothed his hands on the braids as he left the room, as if the self-soothing action would dissipate his nervousness. In his pocket, he turned over the stone his brother had pressed into his hand at the time of his departure.

It was the Winter Solstice. Normally, at home, they would feast. Sometimes, even father would dance after too much wine, but these Imladris Elves seemed to have forgotten true seasons, and there had been no acknowledgement of the solstice. 

Legolas reached the courtyard to find the eight other members of the Fellowship waiting, and his sense of anticipation was almost too much to contain. He knew this was a serious journey, not a pleasure-trip, but he could not keep from smiling. 

The further they travelled from Imladris, the less nature felt as if it were under the tight control of Elrond’s Ring. Legolas reached out and let the awareness of the trees meet his own, just for a moment, then did the same for the plants, for the creatures. Everything felt more unpredictable, more wild and free. Even Legolas himself felt more unrestrained.

But some things stayed the same. 

Boromir continued to hold himself apart. Legolas remembered his speech at the Council. Boromir wanted so much to save his people and had spoken with passion, even if it was in error. Legolas thought that had Opherion come to Imladris in Lastedir’s place, his older brother would probably have said similar words. Opherion’s first thought was also always of duty. Legolas would not hold Boromir’s aloofness against him when he could see the honour which had driven him to such impassioned words.

And Gimli.

Even as they ventured into the wilds together, Gimli did not have a cordial word for Legolas, only that flinty look.

This new feeling of being disliked felt prickly. Uncomfortable. 

When they first left Imladris, Legolas walked with his friend, Estel, and took courage from the Man’s resolute expression. But all the while, he was sure he could feel Gimli’s gaze on the back of his neck. When they were some distance from Imladris, Mithrandir asked Legolas to walk at the back of the column in order that his superior hearing might detect any untoward noises indicating threats from behind. Even then, Gimli’s angry glare was often cast back at him.

Legolas tried to extend the same friendliness to Gimli as he did to the others, but he was unfailingly shunned. On the first night, Gimli had called out ‘the Elf is dead!’. For a moment, Legolas wondered whether he should take that as a threat, but he pushed that idea aside instantly. He had never been afraid of Gimli. Even in the Boar’s Head, when Gimli carried out his strange ritual of stabbing the table, and stabbing the door with a knife, Legolas _knew_ the Dwarf would never do him harm. 

With hindsight, of course a Dwarf would know nothing of reverie. Naturally, Aragorn would know, having been raised in Imladris, and the hobbits had learnt much of Elven ways. Boromir had had Mithrandir as a tutor for many years, and had possibly even seen Mithrandir in reverie. But perhaps Gimli knew as little of Elves as Legolas himself knew of Dwarves. To a mortal, the glassy eyes would be something of a shock. Legolas thought of the battlefield dead he had seen with their open, fixed eyes. He thought of Gilron, with Gollum’s marks on his neck and eyes staring at nothing. If Gimli had also seen death thus, the appearance of reverie would be undeniably disconcerting if one were unprepared for the sight. The next morning Legolas had wanted to say something about it to Gimli but his overture was met with a hot drink almost spilled on his hand by the Dwarf.

Legolas could imagine Thranduil’s sneer if he could see Legolas’ attempts to befriend this mortal. Why did Legolas keep going back? Why did he keep expecting to find reason, warmth even, when he was constantly rebuffed? 

Legolas knew the answer though.

He kept hoping that the Dwarf’s surliness, rudeness and distance would pass, like a summer storm. Gimli had received startling news - that Legolas was Thranduilion - and it had stirred up strong emotions in Gimli. Feelings of anger. Legolas understood that for Glóin, feelings of pain were also awoken at seeing Legolas, due to the reminder of his imprisonment. Legolas understood why the sight of two sons of Thranduil would not have been a welcome one to the Dwarves. 

Legolas knew that Thranduil had little love for Dwarves and that his father may not always have been entirely fair in his dealings towards them. 

Legolas had not been permitted to travel with the host. He could only watch the gleaming armour departing as Thranduil with his army set out to recover the jewels the Dwarves had stolen so many years ago. 

So it came to be that Thranduil’s army had been outside Erebor the day the Wyrm had first arrived. It had wreaked havoc upon the mountain and even from the forest, Legolas had seen the plumes and had smelt the acrid fumes on the wind. Could it be that the gleaming, golden armour of the Sindar Elves, as they marched towards Erebor had been the final summons which drew the Wyrm to the mountain, and not just the hoard of treasure within? 

The Dwarves had seen Thranduil turn away while witnessing the destruction of Erebor, not lifting a finger in aid. Gimli’s parents would have seen this, perhaps. Maybe even Gimli himself - Legolas still did not know how old he was or how old Dwarves _could_ be. 

Though Thranduil was his father, in his role as his lord king, Legolas did not voice criticism. Privately, though he thought it was badly done. 

As they made camp, Legolas sat and thought about that day.

The kingdom had fallen in ash and terror. Maybe Gimli had even been among those Thranduil had turned away when they had come seeking help after the dragon first appeared in Erebor. Legolas could not imagine how he would feel if his forest were to be destroyed. If all the familiar places he had known were burned. If many of his companions were - unmade. And then, when he was at such a point of desperation, how would Legolas feel if he had to humble himself to beg for succor and was even then denied? Legolas’ face burned in shame at the thought of how his father had refused to help the Dwarves fleeing Erebor. 

Legolas lay on his bedroll and continued to reflect. 

Could it be that Gimli and Glóin thought that Legolas himself may have been involved in the decision? It was only recently that Legolas had been allowed to have any involvement in matters of State. At the time of the arrival of the dragon he knew only what little Lastedir would tell him. Even before the Battle of Five armies, Legolas had been told again to remain in the forest, but this time he had instead followed the troops. He had appeared at his brothers’ sides and by then, it would have been dangerous to send him back alone; every fighter was needed and none could be spared as an escort. 

Due to changed circumstances, they had fought _alongside_ Dwarves that day, but the intention had been once again to attack Erebor, and that was no secret. 

Legolas had never experienced what Glóin had gone through, losing his home, and his people travelling, friendless, but Legolas could imagine some of what he might have felt. Even now, Legolas sometimes still felt lost, away from home, but he had the comfort of knowing that he would soon return. For the Dwarves, that hope had been lost when the dragon came. They had seen their kingdom destroyed and their people killed. There was no comfort to be found. 

Then, years later, Glóin had been imprisoned by the same Elves who had refused the Dwarves aid in their destitution. 

Legolas recalled that he himself had added insult to injury. Indeed, Legolas had initially unwittingly disparaged the appearance of an image in Glóin’s locket - asking if it were Glóin’s brother. It turned out that the image was of his wife. So it was true that even the female Dwarves were bearded. This was Gimli’s mother, he presumed. Legolas felt an unpleasant churning in his stomach at the memory of what he had said next. Legolas had looked at the other portrait in the locket and called it ‘a goblin-mutant’. He acknowledged that with the insult to Glóin when looking at the picture, he had been unjust. With his perfect Elven recall, he remembered how Glóin had said it was a painting of his son. Gimli? Or could it have been a portrait of a brother? Or indeed, a sister?

Legolas remembered those Dwarves huddled together. Legolas had taken the locket from the prisoner; from the desperate, hungry, tired and lost Dwarf. He had seen the distress in those eyes. And instead of offering compassion, he had preferred to try to earn the laughter of his own companions by making a joke at his expense; ‘goblin-mutant’. Indeed, the members of his patrol had not laughed, perhaps understanding the greater context of the situation where Legolas had not.

Legolas had freed the Dwarves behind his father’s back, and his conscience had been somewhat cleared. But planting a new tree did not equate to replanting the one which had been cut prior. The stump remained. 

Legolas had not apologised to Glóin for the insult. During the escape, everything had moved too quickly. In Imladris, once Bilbo pointed out that the white-haired Dwarf had been the prisoner with the locket, Legolas had been too afraid of those hurt eyes, of that weapon brandished in angrily trembling hands. Unlike Estel, Glóin had not sought him out, and thus the offence remained between them. 

If anyone had treated Lastedir, or his father like that, he was sure he would carry similar feelings. Indeed, even though he and Opherion were not always harmonious, on his brother’s behalf he would take up arms at such an insult. 

And the insult was the least of the injuries the Dwarves had suffered at the hands of the Elvenking. 

So Legolas understood.

Why then did Legolas not just stay away, why did he allow the anger to be visited on him again and again. Why then did he not stand firm in his resolution not to speak to Gimli again?

In part, it was because Legolas felt he had deserved it. Not only because of his dishonourable conduct in insulting one who was bound and captive, but also due to his inaction after the capture. He had not acted when the Dwarves had first fled the dragon and had been sent away empty-handed. He felt ashamed.

When they rescued the Dwarves from the Spiders that night in the forest, the Dwarves had already mostly freed themselves from the webs in which they had been bound. Most of them would have survived. Some of them. Probably. Well, at least until they approached the next nest. It was protocol to bring intruders to the palace. Legolas had only been following orders. He was not sure what he would have done if he had known beforehand that they would be thrown into cells. 

If Legolas were to rule the Woodland Realm he would tear down all the cells. Perhaps, then it was a good thing that he would never reign. Even if father eventually sailed to join mother, his two brothers had been groomed for the role for yeni. Once, cheekily, Legolas had asked his tutor; ‘if there were already an ‘heir and a spare’ of what use was Legolas?’. His tutor had smiled. _‘Hope._ You were born of the love your parents had, but also out of hope that the Shadow would not consume our lands.’ Well, that prediction had been a failure as the air in the Woodland Realm was now almost thick with the Shadow.

Legolas walked on, his eyes on Gimli’s back. Thinking again of the Shadow in the forest, Legolas ruminated on how frightened those Dwarves must have been when they strayed from the forest path and found themselves first staring into a Spider’s maw then looking at the inside of a prison cell. Legolas had tried to excuse himself to his conscience by saying that if their leader had not been so stubborn, father might have let them go. If the Dwarf in the tower had simply lied and said they were seeking trade in some distant land, they might have been permitted freedom. But that Dwarf with the mournful eyes had remained stubbornly silent. Something about Gimli now reminded him of that Dwarf.

Legolas understood now the honour of one’s word being held to be true. If that king had spoken falsely, then what weight would his honour have had after that? And if he had spoken truly, and let father know that their plan was to rouse a dragon which had lain dormant those past sixty years? They would have been imprisoned until they died. 

One of the few times he saw fear in Thranduil’s eyes was when dragons were spoken of. The dragon in Erebor had not been seen for many years, and many had thought it was dead. Legolas had discovered from Bilbo that that is what the Dwarves had been hoping. But that was a foolish hope. Thranduil would not have let them leave with _hope_ they would not rouse a sleeping dragon. In the end, it was only through luck that success had been found. 

Bain, son Bard, had understood the thrush. Not many Men could still understand the words of beasts and birds. That was luck. The thrush had told of the weakness in the dragon’s hide. It was lucky that he knew of it and lucky that he told the son of the only Man still in possession of a black arrow. It was luck that Bard was a Man who listened and did not dismiss talking creatures as the fancy of small children. Even when Bard heard of the spot in which the dragon was vulnerable, once again, luck had guided the black arrow. 

Many Elven archers would not have made the shot. In the terror and the smoke, viewing the charred ruins of one’s home and with the screaming and scent of panic in the air, an archer could easily lose focus. Indeed, Bard had had his young child with him. Legolas could not even begin to imagine the strain of fearing for a beloved child while facing down a dragon. One could call it luck. Or simply acknowledge that the Valar had intervened. Why did they move so indirectly, and with so much loss of life? Why could they not have simply taken the life of that dragon? Legolas knew not to question the will of the Valar, and did not pursue those thoughts.

Thranduil would never have released them if he had known of their plan. Legolas knew it. Father would have feared the mischief they would stir and would rather have let the short span of their lives pass in those cells rather than let them go. 

And so, in its many aspects, Legolas understood, or at least began to understand, Glóin’s anger. And he understood also why Gimli carried it as his own.

And he hoped it would pass.

The weeks from Gimli finding out Legolas’ identity to now, were a mere blink of an eye. He had had hardly a moment to fully experience his anger. 

And Glóin had had maybe a lifetime of the knowledge that Thranduil had turned away the Dwarves in their distress. Then eighty years of knowing the Elvenking had imprisoned him for seeking his birthright. 

Gimli had had a lifetime of knowing that the Elvenking had been ungenerous, to put it mildly. Yet he had still set those thoughts aside in Dale and seen Legolas not as a hated Elf, but - as himself. Then when he realised that the wrong was quite personal, that Legolas was not a mere subject but the son of the Elvenking, it must have been a blow.

Legolas wanted to respect Gimli, and allow him his anger, but he kept on checking to see if it had yet passed. Legolas wanted to grant him all the time he needed to work through those feelings, but as a mortal, Gimli had no time. Any day, he could be dead. Legolas did not wish to have cause to regret that he did not try. Gimli refused to speak of the matter, and he could not force him to, but perhaps kindness could draw him out.

That night in Dale, a seed had been planted. In his memory, he had nourished it. Even as they travelled to Imladris, in those empty hours on the road Legolas had daydreamed about Gimli. Not only about the - physical pleasure, but about the Dwarf himself. Legolas had known that he was only indulging imaginations, that he did not know the Dwarf, really. But in the weeks in Imladris, certain things had been confirmed to him.

Gimli was as physically attractive as he had remembered; the anger between them did not change that - did not cool that heat. Dressed in his armour, he was an imposing form. Not tall, but still imposing. He occupied all the space around him unapologetically.

Even that one occasion of watching Gimli practice what he called his ‘forms’ had been riveting. Legolas could see the controlled power behind each movement. The look in Gimli’s eyes was not brutish or bloodthirsty for violence, but simply focused. 

At his first meal in Imladris, after the Council, Legolas had been seated by the Lady Arwen’s left hand, while his brother had been given the right hand seat of honour next to Elrond. Elrond had explained how Glóin feared poisoning and would select random plates. He had asked that if it happened that they not intervene. Lastedir had snorted in derision. Legolas wondered out loud if his own plate would be snatched up. Elrond had laughed, saying Glóin may have thought the sons of Thranduil might also be a target and not want to risk their plates. At this, Legolas had grown rather concerned. Should he himself adopt Glóin’s strategy of taking servings at random? No, all he could do was hope the Lord of Imladris upheld his own honour and respected the laws of hospitality.

Legolas had seen Gimli roll his eyes at Glóin’s dining room antics when he thought no one was looking, but Gimli had never shamed his father with public censure.

Legolas had been told that the Dwarves were uncouth and that when food had been brought to them in the dungeons they had fallen upon it like beasts, tearing at it with hands and teeth. He had been told that one had urged moderation but had been ignored. But now he knew they had been starving. Glóin chose to eat only with a knife, spearing the food then biting it from the blade, but Legolas watched Gimli eat as daintily as any other guest in Imladris. He had not known Dwarves could be so mannerly. That was not what he had been told.

When Legolas observed Gimli unawares, he could see his kindness and patience towards the hobbits. As they walked, even Legolas sometimes tired of their antics, but Gimli had never once snapped at them. Legolas remembered how gentle Gimli had always been with the old hobbit. Legolas recalled how on that final night, when Bilbo had repeated a story, Gimli had laughed and smiled as if it was his first time hearing it. Legolas had seen the instant that Gimli had remembered not to slap the old hobbit on the back, the way he did with Glóin, but had tapped their goblets together instead, not openly treating him as something fragile.

Even his loyalty to his father, in feeling anger on his behalf, was a point in Gimli’s favour and spoke of his devotion to his family and loyalty to his people. 

Gimli had not been swayed by the Ring, and had been unhesitating in pledging his life to protect Frodo.

The imaginary and fantasy Dwarf he had created in his mind’s eye after the encounter in Dale, was being replaced and superseded by this very real Dwarf.

The hope was that one day, they could at the very least, be at peace with one another. The hope was not easily uprooted or cut down. The seed planted in Dale was no longer a pretty flower but had turned out to be a robust sapling, alive with hybrid vigour. Legolas knew it could not be more than friendship, but he was afraid the mortal’s time would run out before they could clear the air between them. 

Gimli’s reasons for anger were valid, and he had had only a few weeks with the knowledge of Legolas’ full identity. Legolas’ mind had been growing the seed since Dale and by the time he had seen Gimli again it had bloomed into something larger.

Now, the flimsy bloom of infatuation was being replaced by the sapling of admiration. And beside it, hope, like a persistent weed, kept growing and overcoming any attempts at uprooting it or cutting it down.

They sat by the campfire and ate. Estel had picked rosehips as they left Imladris and each evening he would make a fragrant tea for them all. Through the aromatic haze from his steaming cup, Legolas watched the mortals rush around and exchanged a glance with Mithrandir as they both sat still. It was as if the mortals did not know _how_ to be still. They rushed through their lives as they rushed through the day. They did not take time to pause, and just _be._ Maybe Estel had learnt, from his time among Elves but the others were always _rushing_. ‘Rushing to die’ a voice inside him whispered. It was true, this slow sprint to a mortal end awaited all those here apart from Mithrandir and himself. But he would not distance himself for that reason. He would just not think of that.

Legolas would not dog Gimli’s steps, nor make him uncomfortable with persistence, but at the same time, Legolas did not want to miss being there when the storm of anger ended and the clouds parted. The rainbow seemed to be taking a long time in coming. Perhaps he should try gifts, not to buy his affection, but as a tangible display of goodwill. Legolas would try in a few days. He was not used to measuring time in such small increments and for an Elf, weeks were mere moments, but seeing Glóin’s white hair, seeing Bilbo’s frailty reminded him that if he blinked, this Gimli would be gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas Aylwyyn228 and Aquamarina (acdaniels) and thank you to all the wonderful people who have read the story, appreciated it and encouraged me through your comments.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - on Sunday was the last new moon of the autumn, so that makes it Durin’s day apparently. Happy belated Durin’s day!
> 
> Amazing cover art here from @dhazellouise -Thank you again! I am putting it here for those who have been following the story, as well as on the first chapter.

****

_Mahal’s hairy thighs!_

This Elf was the laziest being on Arda.

While others worked, he was content to sit around. 

Pippin never stopped talking, but even _he_ worked as he chatted.

Gimli did not take the princeling to task. Every time he had harsh words for the Elf, the others looked at him with reproach. It was better to remain silent. 

Whenever they stopped walking, instead of helping to set up camp, the Elf just reclined or rested in the low branches of a tree. Usually he was silent, but sometimes he would start a conversation with a hobbit who was chopping potatoes. Or the Elf would talk while Aragorn checked the map. Merry paid close attention to the map, but the Elf would not even look at it, merely taking the pause as another opportunity to do nothing.

Mahal had made Dwarves to be busy. Industrious. And with the skill of their hands, in craft, and in deeds, they praised him in all their work. But the Elf - it was almost as if he did not even realise there were jobs to do.

When it was finally Legolas’ turn to build up the fire, the Elf bundled together a few sticks, then sat back and waited. His eyes were imploring, pathetically helpless, as if he had never had to light one before. After a few moments he asked in a plaintive voice, “Mithrandir, can you light it?” 

Even Frodo and Sam exchanged a glance at this. 

After a stern look at Legolas, Tharkûn nevertheless complied, and he touched the tip of his staff to the wood. After a few moments a fire was blazing. 

Gimli growled in frustration.

Later, as he approached the evening campfire where Legolas was seated, Gimli calculated the direction of the wind. The Elf had been staring at the trees - blinking, so not in that strange sleep of his. Gimli sat beside him and at this Aragorn raised an eyebrow. Gimli began to puff on his pipe. He was blowing really, more than smoking, and wasting good pipeweed, but it was worth it. 

Understanding the reason for his seating choice now, Aragorn frowned and uttered a single word. “Move.”

This Man was not his king. Gimli scowled in return and ignored him. He offered a pull to the hobbits but they looked uncomfortable, and declined. He burned through the pipe more quickly than gave pleasure, but generated clouds of smoke which blew towards Legolas, into his eyes and the Elf pretended not to have noticed. As Gimli smirked, Tharkûn shook his head slightly, and said to Gimli in a low voice. “That was badly done.” 

A wave of shame collapsed over him, but he let it pass as he walked away from the fire. Gimli had never behaved this way towards anyone before. But the Elf deserved it, and worse. He no longer felt like smoking anyhow, and besides, he needed to tend to his axe. As he departed, he heard the Elf mumble, “Curses! Eru, grant me patience.”

In later years, Gimli would smile about the fact that Legolas had hardly known how to swear in Westron when they first met. 

Of course, there were those mild, nursery-like oaths -‘Aulë strike you!’- but nothing stronger. Gimli would not speak so coarsely before Bilbo or the Rivendell Elves. Or Dori. But Dis could swear a crack into crystal and Nori had elevated it to a craft, and from listening to them, Gimli would say he was fluent in expletives. Gimli swore freely and Pippin hoarded every word. After only a few days, Pippin was eager to demonstrate his new found vocabulary. 

Boromir said that as there were no ladies present, he did not mind if they spoke freely. Gimli did not see what one had in one’s trews had to do with anything, but he decided not to argue that point. 

Aragorn, the hobbits and the Elf had formed an exclusive bubble for themselves. Both he and Boromir had found themselves as outsiders from the group, and in that they found a point of commonality. Of course, Gimli also knew Tharkûn, but he was not pleased with the way both he and Aragorn had taken the Elf’s side, knowing neither the wrongs done to him, nor the details of the dispute, and he did not care to enlighten them. 

Gimli thus seated himself beside Boromir for most evening meals. 

Gimli had no special hatred of Men. He simply generally chose to keep his distance. He had known them to be cruel and unjust, but that was as any _Dwarf_ could be. Gimli had grown up with a wariness of Men. He had seen their harsh, and often exploitative treatment of his people. 

But he had also witnessed acts of kindness. He remembered still the little cloak the Man had put onto his shivering shoulders as their cart had passed by his homestead when Gimli was still a little pebble. The Man had pressed a bundle into his mother’s hands, and it had been filled with bread and cured sausages. The Man had not looked as if he could really afford to give away that much food and thick cloth. 

Gimli would judge each Man on their own quality, and until they wronged him, he would not adopt a hostile attitude. 

Gimli had been surprised by Boromir’s dry sense of humour and his wit. He had appeared so aloof and serious in Rivendell. But in these enforced close-quarters, his personality was becoming clearer each day, like rocks revealed to contain rich mineral deposits upon closer examination. He spoke with warmth of his brother and of his homeland and Gimli shared tales of Erebor. He sang marching songs in a low voice to help lift the hobbits' spirits when they tired and he pulled his weight in carrying out the duties of the camp.

Boromir dealt with the hobbits with a compassion Gimli had not expected from a Man who was so obviously a soldier, and used to command. That day, when Pippin had said he was too tired to walk any further, Boromir had carried him on his shoulders for a league. 

Boromir had said that he was bound by duty to do what was best for Gondor, and that knowledge seemed to propel him. “Some are not so bound, it seems.” As Boromir spoke those words, he looked at Aragorn. At the Council, Boromir had made it clear that in his eyes, Aragorn had not done his duty by Gondor, instead choosing to spend his days among Elves and among the Dúnedain, roaming the wilds, under the name of ‘Strider’. “We wouldn’t want such a fickle one in any case,” Boromir spat. “My father’s rule is failing. Our people lose faith. Gondor looks to me.”

As Boromir spoke of those who shirked their duty, Gimli looked at Tharkûn. Gimli wondered when he would abandon the Fellowship as he had done with Thorin’s Company, time and time again. He remembered the words he had spoken to Lord Elrond; 'Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens'. Gimli was fully prepared for the Wizard to abandon them when other matters drew his attention, in the same way he had forsaken Thorin's Company before the Trolls and before Mirkwood.

“Mahal’s balls!” said Pippin cheerfully, as a morning greeting, on the last day of the year.

Gandalf acted as if he could not hear anything, and Sam and Frodo seemed slightly discomfited.

“Bollocks!” replied Merry, equally as gleefully.

Sam had murmured to Frodo, “It’s Merry’s fault. He encourages it.”

“It is Gimli who teaches these words,” Legolas said, to no one in particular. Then he added, apropos of nothing, “some people here are acting like shits.”

Although he was speaking in a low voice, he was speaking in Westron, which meant he wanted Gimli to understand him.

Aragorn spoke cheerily to no one in particular. “Just ignore them, if they get no response they’ll get tired of it soon enough, just like with children.”

The Hobbits were not children. The Ringbearer himself was just short of twenty years past his majority and was ten years older than Sam and Merry. Such young shoulders for such a burden. Pippin was still in ‘his ‘tweens’, as the hobbits called the irresponsible twenties between childhood and coming of age at thirty-three. Gimli had grown up around Dwarrowlings and knew that ignoring it was indeed the correct approach, but wondered how Aragorn had come by his child-rearing knowledge. This Man was an enigma, but seemed to have a veil around him, which discouraged too many questions.

“If we’re ignoring people, I’m ignoring Gandalf,” said Pippin. “He’s a nuisance and a disturber of the peace.” Pippin was still sore about the items Tharkûn had confiscated from his pack the day before the Fellowship had left Rivendell.

Gimli expected to be on the receiving end of a barb from the Elf about being ignored, but instead of a quip from Legolas, he heard the Elf call out. 

“Ai, the stream!” exclaimed Legolas. 

The stream seemed to be no surprise to Aragorn who must have deliberately led them this way. Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli, went to replenish their water skins and canteens. The hobbits crouched down to drink from it with cupped hands.

The Elf had thrown down his pack, carelessly dropped his weapons, and removed his light armour. He was now stalking away from them, downstream towards the water. 

_Oh, Mahal_

Legolas was throwing off his clothes as he walked. As he hopped out of his leggings he was left in only his breechclout, which he soon discarded. He stood still for a moment and with a flick of his wrists, his hair was knotted on the crown of his head. Gimli recalled that flash of backside that morning in Dale. 

Gimli could not breathe.

Legolas was now in the stream, happily splashing and laughing; naked as the day he was born. 

Gimli looked over to the Man of Gondor who seemed almost as discomfited as Gimli himself. 

“Master Elf, have you no care?'' asked Boromir. “What if we are attacked?”

Gimli’s aching hardness strained against his trews. _Oh, Mahal,_ what the fuck was the Elf playing at?

“If we are attacked,” Legolas said conversationally, “I would hear them long before they reached this clearing, just as I have been hearing this stream as we walked. Indeed, even if they came upon us this very instant, in moments my bow would be in hand, then blades if close work were needed.” Legolas tilted his head quizzically. 

Gimli was carefully looking only at Legolas’ face as the Elf now spoke, saying, “what is the matter, Boromir? You do not look well.” 

Gimli had no words. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. 

From nowhere, Tharkûn now stepped in. “Legolas, in Gondor, like most other places outside your forest, they are more particular about wearing clothing. They are not Wood Elves.”

Legolas looked over his shoulder, and tilted his head the other way. “Shall I not bathe, Mithrandir?”

“You may. Just hurry up. You just took them by surprise.”

Aragorn, unperturbed, was refilling the large waterskin in one of the packs carried by the pony. Sam had his back turned pointedly and was suddenly looking for something in his own pack, asking for Frodo’s assistance. Merry and Boromir had turned away and were splashing their faces and washing their hands. Pippin was openly gawking then started to take his coat off. “Don’t be stupid Pip, it’s Midwinter.” Merry said. “You’d freeze your bits off.”

Gimli just stood, the words bouncing around his head; ‘in moments my bow would be in hand’. Unbidden came the image of Legolas standing, naked, with his bow pulled back. Gimli’s exhalation had the ghost of a moan and Tharkûn looked at him sharply. 

Gimli walked away quickly, making a show of taking his water skin. He tried to adjust himself unobtrusively. He was straining at his trews and it was almost painful. He tried to list the five virtues of a warrior, the seven fundamentals of the dwarrow for when they come of age. By the time he got to ‘all the Khazad are one’ he could walk normally again. Was the Elf trying to seduce him? Perhaps in order to distract him from his role as Frodo’s protector? Gimli would not look. 

The smooth line of Legolas’ back met his neck. As Legolas had taken the glossy sheet of his hair and tied it into a knot at the top of his head, his neck was visible. Ah, Gimli could see the back of his neck and the fine hairs which curled on his nape, almost like dandelion-fluff apart from the colour. Or perhaps in Mirkwood, dandelions _did_ grow black. 

Drops of water caressed a slow course down the Elf’s back. 

_If only he could lick those drops away, or perhaps, follow their path downward._

Gimli kept his eyes firmly on his task of refilling a large canteen. He heard the Elf exiting the water, and the rustle of clothing, but when Gimli dared to turn back, the Elf was only in his underclothes. The garments clung to his damp skin.

Pippin spoke, pointing at the vest. “Is that silk?”

“Yes.”

“Is it from the spiders? In Mi- in your home?”

“No. Once, some attempted to spin their silk. It was thought that though they were foul, at least they could be made useful. But the cloth woven thereof burned the skin and was evil-smelling. We trade with Men from the East for silk.”

Tharkûn coughed.

As he sat in his underclothes Legolas had the nerve to ask, “is - is this still not right?”

“Get dressed,” Tharkûn instructed.

Obediently, Legolas gathered up his things and redressed.

Gimli was keeping his eyes firmly on the flask he was filling. But even so, he dropped it when it overflowed and he felt the cold shock as it splashed into the water.

*

That evening, Pippin rummaged in his pack until he produced a sock, with something bulky within. Surprised, as the hobbits did not wear such items of clothing, they all looked on as Pippin revealed a small bottle, then held it aloft. It was one of the cordials Rivendell’s kitchens produced from syrups made from the fruits and flowers which grew there. Except, it was not a cordial. Evidently, Pippin had poured it out, or more likely drunk it in one sitting, and replaced it with a strong liquor. 

Pippin informed the group that they needed to “see in the New Year with a wee drop of something.” Silently his eyes begged Tharkûn for permission. He assented, as the bottle was too small to contain enough liquor for them to be intoxicated, and the mouthful each of them took would not be enough to impair them. 

Gimli took a swig of the New-Year’s toast, and as the liquor burned down his throat, he could taste a hint of sweet cordial. Gimli winced at the comforting burn as it went down, and it felt almost as warm as an embrace.

Gimli knew he was supposed to make a wish, as they marked the passing of the old year. This was a Mannish thing, but he had travelled with enough Mannish caravans at this time of year to have participated several times in this ritual. One was not to say the wish out loud, that much he knew. The obvious thing to wish for was that they all be safe through the journey but one could wish only for one thing, so he wished that their mission would be successful, and that the Ring would be destroyed. 

Before they went to sleep, Tharkûn took it upon himself to go through Pippin’s pack once more, but there was no more contraband within. 

*

In the Shire, the fiercest battles they had were in games of conkers. Some hobbits were skilled at using a slingshot, but not these four. The hobbits had not trained in any weapons while in Rivendell. Frodo had still been convalescing, and Sam would not have left his side. Without the older two to ground them, lessons with Merry and Pippin would have been a waste of any instructor’s time. 

On the first day of the new year, Boromir, Gimli and Aragorn had started to train the hobbits and it had started well. 

It was decided that as they walked, the hobbits should learn some fundamentals, at least. Gimli could teach the Dwarven style of fighting whereby one drew strength from the ground but he could admit that the Elven style of swift movement was better for the hobbits as they were so quick and light on their feet. Gimli could at least contribute knowledge of how to deal with a taller enemy, with a longer reach. Tharkûn did not teach them any fighting and Gimli wondered if he knew how. Perhaps he could only use magic. 

Boromir had encouraged the hobbits to hold their weapons as they walked so that they could familiarise themselves with the weight of their blades in their hands and to ensure they got into the habit of holding them correctly. Every time they paused for a rest, Boromir would patiently check their grips, their stances, and encourage them. 

Gimli did not like the way Boromir’s gaze lingered on Frodo. He was not sure what was behind that look. It did not seem prurient at the very least. The hobbits were all so young. He did not care to think what they may or may not do with each other, and even though Boromir was of an age with them, Gimli misliked the idea of any such relations. It was a calculating look though, not lascivious. Gimli put the concern aside and assumed Boromir was considering what structure his training would take.

Gimli’s drills tried to focus on the muscle memory of cutting hamstrings and ankle tendons. Gimli knew their hands would eventually naturally fall into correct holds through the force of habit. Normally, one would have a good decade to teach such things, but they could only do what they could with the time available to them. 

Once again, Gimli had admired the craftsmanship of Aragorn’s sword. Gimli and Glóin had watched the sword being reforged in Rivendell. With their beards tucked into their jerkins to avoid any wayward sparks, they had watched, and even Glóin had nothing disparaging to say of the technique or workmanship. Such a sword was not for training against novices, lest it suffer a nock. 

Gimli had found a stout branch for Aragorn to use instead of his sword when training the hobbits. Gimli could not bear seeing damage to such fine craftsmanship, when one of the hobbits inevitably struck at a strange angle, dislodging a gem in the hilt or something similar. 

But the inevitable argument with the Elf had arisen. During that very first training session, Legolas had berated Gimli then stormed off alone, up a tree, for no reason. 

A part of Gimli feared he was taking an opportunity to somehow send messages to the Enemy, while they were all occupied with the training, but even in his own heart, the claim felt weak. He found it hard to think of Legolas colluding with Sauron; the Elf’s friendship with the hobbits and with Aragorn seemed so genuine. Gimli struggled to believe Legolas could wish harm upon them. But that’s what Elves were. Heartless and ruthless in their methods.

With the Elf gone, Gimli continued the lesson. Gimli explained. “When Dwarves fight, we root ourselves in the stone beneath our feet. Elves move like water, swift and powerful, like a river running downstream.”

*

And this Elf would not give up. 

When they stopped to set up camp, the Elf had moved to bring his bedding next to Gimli’s. 

“Elf, move your sleeping roll away from mine,” Gimli growled. “I have no desire to be subjected to your snoring.”

Aragorn and Tharkûn exchanged a look.

“What is it?” Merry asked.

Gandalf responded. “The only time you will catch an Elf snoring is when they are in a state of deep relaxation. Few who are not Elves get to see them in that condition. Out here in the wild we have no cause to worry about Legolas’ snores.”

Gimli looked confused, then frowned. So, had the Elf been pretending to snore, pretending to sleep, even, that night in Dale? More and more failed to add up.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing betas! Thank YOU for reading and I love hearing from you!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end notes about some lines towards the end of the chapter which may be familiar-sounding.

This evening was a strange one. In the Woodland Realm, they did not mark the new year. They feasted at the change of the seasons and at the solstices, but such a small measure of time as a year did not warrant a celebration. Legolas wondered how the mortals could find joy in the passage of time. Surely, it simply marked how little time they had remaining on Arda? Nevertheless, Legolas had still taken a swallow of the bitter drink Pippin had offered, “to see in the New Year.”

Looking around at the group sitting by the fire, he smiled. Being among mortals was not as strange as Legolas had thought it would be. They were oddly - normal. He had thought perhaps they would live in terror of their impending ends, but they carried on as if there were nothing wrong.

The next morning, he woke from his reverie to the mild distress of the plants around him. Estel was snapping off rosehips for making tea. There was not even time for Legolas to ask the plants, or warn them. The group trampled the grass as they began to rise. The one who crushed the most grass of all with his heavy tread was Gimli. Legolas had to work to ignore the agitation roused by this unintended destruction, and he hummed softly to offer what little healing he could. Mithrandir had been on watch, and he cast Legolas a sympathetic look.

Legolas looked over to Gimli. As always, Gimli was in full armour, removing his helm only when in his bed-roll. But even with the helm on, Legolas could still see that Gimli now had dark circles under his eyes. Legolas could also see he was irritable, even with the hobbits, though he did not treat them harshly. 

The day before, when Gimli had sat next to Legolas voluntarily for the first time since Dale, Legolas’ heart had raced for a moment. Then Gimli had begun to blow smoke into Legolas’ face.

The fumes curling about him were not the form of caress he would have chosen. And he would have rather tasted the pipeweed on Gimli's lips. Despite Gimli's actions, Legolas still felt drawn to him. He could not forget that this unpleasant stranger had once been something different. And that warm, gentle and attentive version of Gimli felt more real than the one in the present.

He had quickly blinked back tears, not entirely from the smoke, and recalled all of his training on composure. He imagined the icy hauteur father could cast. He focused on the bark of a tree, noticing it's patterns and texture. He sensed its dormancy, the sap within sluggish, but remembering spring.

Legolas knew that it was said of the Elves that they were patient. But his store of patience was withering. In Imladris he had seen Gimli only at planning sessions and at mealtimes and even then, not every meal. Now, the endless needling was getting to be too much; overgrown and invasive.

Sam and Frodo made breakfast, while Estel and Mithrandir looked over the map. Merry and Pippin were drawing Gimli into their conversation. Though Gimli’s responses were gruff, he answered Pippin’s incessant questions patiently, and Legolas was glad of them, for they helped him to understand much.

Pippin hesitated, drew in a breath and then gestured towards Gimli. “Why do you do that every morning, Gimli?”

“I’m surprised it took you so long to ask, Master Took." Pippin seemed to have sparked a twinkle of amusement in Gimli’s eye.

“Sam told me it was rude to ask,” said Pippin, proud at having resisted for so long. 

“As if manners ever stopped you before,” responded Merry, giving him a shove for good measure.

Before they became too boisterous, Gimli spoke an answer. “I am going through my weapons forms. I repeat the motions so that my body remembers what to do when needed.”

They had all agreed to help the hobbits train. They really should have started this in Rivendell, but they had not wished to tax Frodo’s mortal body with vigorous exercise as he recovered from his injury. The others could have trained without him, but the four of them stuck together and were rarely apart.

When they stopped to make camp and began training on the first day of the new year, there had been a moment of tension. 

Estel’s broken sword had been re-forged and named Andúril, ‘The Flame of the West’. Legolas knew it had first been forged in the First Age and it was older even than father. It was not a weapon for training drills, even Legolas could see that. But instead of looking for a suitable piece of deadwood, with his axe, Gimli had casually lopped off a stout branch from a tree for Estel to use to parry with the hobbits' own short swords. He had said the hobbits might accidentally damage the sword if Estel trained with it. 

A faint call of distress from the tree had drawn Legolas’ attention to what had happened.

“Oh! No! It was not dead! Why could you not have taken a branch from the ground!”

Mithrandir had separated them but the frustration in Legolas just built up. 

Legolas offered what comfort he could to the tree, and examined the flare of his own temper. He was trying to be patient, but Gimli - he was so sour. Legolas had never had to deal with one so intractable. Legolas’ patience had never been tested thus and he could feel it running out despite his resolution to be understanding. He was a Wood Elf, and they were not known for their restraint.

Many years ago, after the First Age, [Eärendil](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/E%C3%A4rendil) and his ship, together with the last remaining Simaril were placed in the sky by the Valar. This was as a sign of hope to the people of Middle-earth. The Elves had awoken under the stars and had an affinity for them and Legolas half-heard words of comfort and encouragement from them, always just outside his hearing as he sat and prayed for guidance.

Legolas sat and watched the hobbits training. Boromir fought in a crude, hacking style. As he demonstrated, Legolas could see the power behind each stroke but it was not elegant. Estel’s style seemed more Elven, which was understandable given his upbringing in Imladris. Perhaps he had even been trained by the famous Glorfindel. In contrast to the flowing, Elven style, Gimli looked to be planted in the rock as he showed the hobbits how he handled the axe. 

Legolas had said, “I will not take up arms against you, even in sport, but I will show you how to move.” 

The hobbits tried, they really did, but they all seemed so slow and so clumsy. Legolas tried to hide his frustration and dismay; the hobbits were not in any position to be victorious against a real foe. 

He could have carved rudimentary bows for them, enabling them to fight from a safer distance, but there would not be enough time to teach them. Even the fundamentals of archery would take too long for them to master. The hobbits were not equipped to battle against an enemy.

Against an Orc, these soft hobbits would not stand. 

They would only survive by running away, not by fighting. 

So, Legolas patiently taught them through games, chasing them and in turn being chased. He practiced footwork, and tried to focus on ‘muscle memory’ as Gimli had called it. He showed them how to run and fall and roll. 

He taught them to hide, to always notice where convenient bushes might be as they walked. Legolas would send out a soft apology as a bush was trampled. “Vanya!” he would call, using the Quenya word. “Disappear!” And in moments, the hobbits would be out of sight. “Clear,” he would then call out, again in Quenya, and they would emerge, laughing. He chose the Quenya words as he was unlikely to use them in any other context. 

Training the hobbits had had an unexpected benefit. Boromir had held himself apart, but the play-fights seemed to have broken down some barrier between him and the hobbits. He seemed more relaxed overall, though he still sat arrow-straight when next to Mirthrandir, as if he were with a school tutor and he still gave Aragorn only terse silences. 

“You train the hobbits well,” Legolas had ventured as Boromir had sat beside him. 

“In Gondor all must know the way of the sword.” His answer was not dismissive, but he did not seem that inclined to converse. Still, Legolas would try.

“It is so in the Woodland Realm also. We all need to know how to fight. Our forest is not safe.”

At this, Boromir turned to look at Legolas, then he spoke. “Your lands are beset by the Enemy, as are mine.”

“My mother - I grew up without a mother because of it.”

“My brother was only four years of age when our mother died. I was eight. Perhaps she would have introduced me to gentle arts, however I am but a Man for war. And as long as I have been alive, Gondor has been at war. Beset by Orcs. It is all I have ever known.”

Legolas spoke of how the Woodland Realm had been plagued by the Shadow and the Spiders. “They call it Mirkwood now.”

Boromir looked surprised. “Aragorn charged us not to name it so.”

“Ah, that is for Gimli’s benefit. Not for mine. There is much history between our peoples and the name Mirkwood stirs up an anger in Gimli, like swirling a stick in a riverbed.”

Boromir started to say something, then held back. When he spoke finally he sounded almost plaintive. “All I want is to restore our lands. To restore pride to our people.”

Legolas understood, and felt the same. 

As if sensing the empathy, Boromir continued. “We are the only ones who understand relentless evil. The hobbits know little of hardship. Aragorn, Gandalf, Gimli - they have seen fighting, battles even, but you and I are the only ones who have seen the relentless creep of evil that would press, and press until it consumes the entire land.”

It seemed that Boromir would have said more, but the pony had nudged him, and Boromir was drawn into a conversation with the hobbits. 

The course they walked followed the path of the stream they had found three days ago. 

Every morning, Gimli would rinse his beard in the icy water, with Boromir standing watch. Legolas was curious, as he had heard that Dwarves did not like water. He had thought that perhaps the warmth of the pool had been what enticed Gimli into the water that evening in Imladris, but this water was almost freezing and yet Gimli willingly approached the stream. 

As intrigued as he was, Legolas respected his privacy and turned away when Gimli undid his braids. Legolas could not help imagining his own fingers tangled up in that beard once again, but he was unlikely to ever have that experience again.

The day was uneventful, and as the sun set, they stopped to make camp. At Sam’s request, with Aragorn, Legolas had left the camp to hunt. 

He had not hunted in this way for a long time. In the Woodland Realm most food was now brought up by the river from the Elves who lived by the water at the outskirts of the forest. There remained only a small circle within the Woodland Realm where they could hunt where the meat was not tainted by the Shadow.

He called over a small bird to wait with him in the undergrowth and had waited with Estel. Estel knew how to be still and silent, and the lack of chatter was a welcome relief. 

After some time, when Legolas could hear that there was no potential quarry nearby, he and Aragorn had spoken at length and further grown their connection. Despite his short years, Legolas felt Estel he had almost expanded the time through force of will to have experienced so much. He had left Imladris when he came of age and had gone to live among the Dúnedain. He said the contrast between Imladris where everything had been done for him, and the wilds had been a shock. He had spoken of his time in Rohan and Gondor but his silence when he mentioned Imladris again was louder than any words he had spoken so far.

Legolas sat with his knees hugged to his chest, still waiting for an unfortunate creature to pass their way. As Legolas looked around at the strange trees and at the open clearing, Aragorn observed, “you are missing home.” For any Elf, anything new was a delight, and sensing the new surroundings was satisfying in a way Legolas had not known before leaving his home. For many years now, they had not been permitted to reverie outside the palace, for fear of Spiders, and being outside for so long was refreshing. But at the same time, his familiar haunts, his family, the whole Woodland Realm could not easily be supplanted in his mind. He conveyed all he could with a simple nod. 

“I too am looking forward to returning to my home,” Aragorn said softly, but Legolas had the impression that he was not speaking of Imladris. 

Legolas had returned to the camp with a small buck. As Legolas gave thanks for the life the deer had given, he prayed it had felt no pain. He did not feel happy about this hunt. There was too much waste. They did not have time to heat the hooves for glue, nor to tan the skin, and a large amount of the carcass was discarded.

Sam cleaned a portion of the guts and diced some meat, adding to it herbs he had collected as they walked. Soon, strings of sausages were roasting over the fire, to the hobbits’ delight. Some were set aside to smoke overnight to preserve them, but they would not need to keep for long. 

As Legolas watched Gimli, he thought of a ‘talk’ he had had many years ago. Just before he had reached his majority, one of the older Sindar Elves at court, older even than father, had taken Legolas aside. The courtier had said to Legolas that ‘union’ would awaken an ‘unquenchable thirst’ and would drive him mad. He was instructed to avoid any such thing until he found the Elf he wanted to marry. 

At the time, Legolas had had no idea what the courtier was trying to say, couched in such euphemism, but he later understood it to have alluded to bodily pleasure with another. 

Legolas knew that Lastedir took lovers and was not driven mad. And the Silvans who did so were not destroyed either.

Legolas did not feel much different after Dale. Perhaps it was because Gimli had been a Dwarf. Or perhaps it was the nature of the pleasure they had shared. Or maybe because he was Silvan. The Silvan Elves did not hold to the Noldor ways; that bodily union was for marriage only, and even then, for the begetting of children. Even many of the Sindar at court were not so strict in those matters. Legolas did not know what Aragorn thought of that, but would not bring up such a topic. He did not like to ask something so private.

Aragorn was an attractive Man, he could see that. But even if he had not been promised, Legolas was not drawn to him. Legolas was simply glad to have a friend who did not assume they already knew everything about him, having known him since birth and having watched him growing up.

As Gimli moved in his morning training, Legolas would watch, enjoying the movement of his body. He seemed to prefer stony ground for this. It was not a balcony, it was in the open, before everyone, so Legolas was not intruding on a private moment. 

Legolas liked the way Gimli looked. Was there something strange about Legolas? He had been told Dwarves were ugly, grotesque, deformed. He had never been told not to be with a Dwarf in that way. It seemed like it was taken for granted that he would be repulsed and such a warning was unnecessary. Opherion had taken Legolas aside once, and said that mortal women would bring him only grief and to stay away from them. But his eldest brother had then clammed up and would speak no more on the topic but he had said nothing of Dwarves. 

Legolas decided not to think on that. There was no privacy to bring himself relief and he did not want to cause himself pain with bittersweet memories. Even in reverie he did not revisit that time. But he still wanted to find a way to ease relations between himself and Gimli.

Legolas had brought coins with him. He still had Gimli's battered purse and it was at the bottom of his pack. Father had given him a purse of small coins, which were not at all as interesting as the ones he had taken to Dale, but father said those were too large to travel with. 

Gimli had never thanked Legolas for the coin, but given his newfound rudeness and hostility, Legolas had not expected any such manners and would not give him another. Legolas had also brought with him a small pouch of gems. Legolas ran his fingers over the one which was now his favourite. A small gem the size of his thumbnail. The colour of Gimli’s hair. 

For a week, Legolas had been giving Gimli gifts but it was not working. Legolas felt the impatience flowering. He needed to try something else. Gimli had ignored the sticks, and leaves he had already given. He did not seem to notice that he had given him an extra piece of meat from the hunt. He thought he should try a stone, as Dwarves liked stone.

Perhaps he would pay attention to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Vanya-** Q. go, depart, disappear.
> 
> The lines about 'losing one's mind' after 'union' are a nod to great fics such as Velle by DeHeerKonijn & Roselightfairy. And the notion of 'Elves don't fuck' crops up in the Rising verse series by telemachus. It is canon that Elves were chaste until marriage. “It was the act of bodily union that achieved marriage, and after which the indissoluble bond was complete.” -J.R.R. Tolkien, “Laws and Customs Among the Eldar” 
> 
> I have enjoyed many stories which followed this element, but I have approached this fic differently, and here is is less of a biological fact, and more a cultural norm.
> 
> Thanks to Aylwyyn228 and Aquamarina (acdaniels) for all their feedback and beta and to Lichtschwert for an amazing brainstorming session. Thanks to you too for reading and I'd love to hear what you think.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a double-length chapter. Enjoy!
> 
> You might notice a couple of familiar-sounding lines - please see end notes.

This fucking Elf. Chasing and playing with the hobbits when they stopped to make camp, or gazing at the clouds or at the stars, depending on the hour.

But it came in fits and starts, with bursts of activity between his idleness. It had now been more than a week since they left Rivendell, and while the dried provisions remained, the fresh meat they had carried with them had now run out. Even though it was somewhat preserved by the cold, it was not prudent to ration it too sparingly, as spoiled meat brought with it the risk of illness, not to be taken lightly when travelling in the wilds.

They had stopped to make camp, and Sam had asked, “Master Legolas, begging your pardon, but would you catch some meat for the pot?” Gimli had watched as the Elf sprung up and left the camp with Aragorn, as they were not permitted to walk alone. 

Upon their return, Gimli watched Aragorn and Legolas walking close together. Legolas had a small deer slung over his shoulder. He had looked sad as he walked. When he approached the group he looked as if he wished to speak, then held himself silent. After a few moments he spoke, saying only, “this young buck would not have survived the winter - he was lame.” 

Legolas laid down the buck, then held Mithrandir’s eye while holding out his forearm. Mithrandir unbuckled Legolas’ bracers and kept charge of them as Legolas rolled up his sleeves. Gimli watched as Legolas turned his face upwards and closed his eyes, mouthing a silent prayer. The Elf proceeded to crouch, and sliced open the deer with a razor sharp arrowhead. He then dipped two fingers into the blood.

Gimli looked on in confusion but remained silent.

Merry whispered “-what are you doing?” but Tharkûn shushed him.

With the blood, Legolas drew a stripe up from the inside of his wrist, to his elbow. The action was very deliberate, and Gimli watched in fascination as he marked the soft skin of his inner arm. Then the Elf did the same on his left hand. Again, Legolas dipped his fingers into the still-warm blood, and this time drew a stripe from the base of his chin, to the hollow of his throat. Finally, he washed his hands in the blood.

Boromir was the first to break the silence. “What the fuck is that?”

Mithrandir spoke. “It is a Silvan custom.”

“Yes,” said Legolas. “We show that we have blood on our hands when we kill, that all may see that our arms have acted in violence. We mark our throats as a reminder that the food we eat has a cost. Only the one who has killed must do so, but in seeing, the others are reminded that a creature died that we might eat. We do not waste, and we give thanks that our life has been sustained by the death of another.” 

“Do you do it when you kill Orcs?” 

“Not now, Pippin - for crying out loud,” Merry shushed. 

“Well, we don’t eat Orcs.” Legolas seemed to be suppressing a laugh.

Sam looked sick. 

Legolas’ face was serious again when he spoke. “But you are right, the hands and arms used to be marked for the death of any enemy, with the throat marked for animals hunted for food. But Orc blood, and that of Spiders - it was not healthsome on the skin. It was corrupted. So now we do it only on the hunt. But I will wash now, I can see it upsets you.”

The hobbits did not protest.

Gimli wondered whether the Elf had ever had Dwarf blood on his hands.

Gimli watched as Legolas poured out water to wash; he wet his handkerchief and he sloshed out about half their store of water onto the ground. Gimli would have to fetch more.

Legolas continued talking to the group in general. 

“I have known as much sorrow as any Man has in his lifetime. I have seen the cycles of the seasons and the dances of life and death. I think about the Orcs and the Spiders I have to kill, but I do it anyway, because I know that in the world it is often a choice of having to kill or be killed.”

As Gimli listened, he thought this pragmatism reminded him of Nori, but then he reminded himself that this ruthlessness would be used against him if he dropped his guard. 

Then, Legolas sat and watched as Aragorn and Sam skinned and gutted the animal and Legolas made no effort to help. Sam did use some of the cleaned guts to make sausages, some of which they smoked overnight. Gimli set up a mesh of leaves above the fire to diffuse the smoke. 

At Gandalf’s direction, Merry and Pippin dug a hole for the rest of the entrails and hide. That was a sad waste but there would be no opportunity to cure the skin nor stew the offal. The smell would be too strong and there was insufficient time. 

As he did after every meal, Sam washed Legolas’ plates for him, while the Elf sat on the ground, merrily chatting and singing. 

The novelty of the journey had worn off, and as the two youngest struggled to sleep, GImli watched as Legolas sat beside their sleeping-rolls and told them stories, changing his voice for each part, whistling softly the birds’ songs. He whistled the messages on the wind, and he hummed the babble of the stream. Engrossed, Merry and Pippin fought sleep, but eventually fell into slumber. Until the fire died down, the Elf sat still beside them, then when they appeared to be in a deep slumber he gently placed his hand on Merry’s sleeping head, then Pippin’s then rose to depart. 

All the while, Gimli kept a close eye on the ringbearer, and kept his hand upon the handle of his axe. 

Legolas moved as if to join Gimli, but seeing Gimli’s hard eyes on him changed his mind and went to sit alone, and allowed his eyes to glaze over in that eldritch way of his that Boromir had told Gimli was called ‘reverie’.

As they travelled further and further into the wilds, Gimli had set to observing the Elf. He noted that he was a competent tracker and he took seriously his duty of hunting for food, and kept Sam’s pot full of game. He kept watch with alertness, never dozing off. He entertained the others with songs and stories and could whistle like a bird. 

A part of Gimli wanted to join in that laughter but could not.

Gimli continued to keep a watchful eye on him.

But he found that his anger had dulled. 

Gimli had never before held onto a grudge this long. Like water carried in cupped hands over a long distance, Gimli found his ire had trickled away and he was left only with the hurt and the suspicion and caution. Sometimes anger would flare up, but his pain was just a dull ache now, like an old battle injury. It was almost a matter of habit now, of reflex, to be discourteous towards the Elf, rather than an expression of hurt. The hostility had ebbed away leaving only wariness. 

Gimli needed to keep his wits about him, but this Elf was a stone in his shoe. Gimli was always aware of where Legolas was. Gimli made sure not to forget what he knew; Legolas had spied on him for Thranduil, and - and he had used Gimli’s body. And he was a threat to them all.

Gimli still also needed to free himself of the burden of the Life-Debt. Though the Elf had already dismissed it, they still needed to carry out the formalities for the matter to be closed, but he could not stand the thought of being told again that the lives of his family meant nothing to the Elf. Gimli despaired at his own lack of a plan. He looked over at the Elf as he thought. 

Gimli had acknowledged to himself that it was impractical to journey together and still not look at the Elf.

So Gimli looked.

The sight of that guileless, laughing face twisted at his gut. He had to fight to remember that this Elf meant him ill. He meant them all ill. The Elves were leaving and cared nothing for Arda. He was only risking this journey for the chance to take the ring. Nothing more. 

His eyes moved to Legolas’ soft lips, in a moue of disbelief at something Frodo said. Then a flash of laughter, like a mithril seam when one was expecting lead. Gimli bit his lip. He could not allow himself to forget that the Elf was not what he seemed. 

_*_

As they followed the path of the stream, Gimli would fetch water in an oiled sack, for the fellowship to use for cooking and washing, and would venture off the path together with Boromir. 

Gimli himself rinsed his beard in the stream, but would not bathe in the open. Dwarves made it a rule not to disrobe in the open where they might be seen, in order to prevent the identification of travelling dams. 

Gimli had only risked the concealed pool in Rivendell because it had been dark and remote and at that hour few were abroad. He and Glóin had used the baths in Rivendell because to do otherwise would have been impractical given their extended stay, however they still took care to not be seen undressed. 

In general, Dwarves allowed it to be known that _all_ Dwarves were too modest to undress in company, and that they did not like to swim and did not like water. By doing so, they protected the dams who would then not be singled out for failing to undress or bathe before strangers. It was well known that Men could be foul, and it was wisdom for the Khazad to hide the sex of dams by hiding the bodies of all when outside of Dwarrowdom. 

Gimli recalled an incident from when he was very young, barely in his forties. He and a young dam, Naer, had gone together with him to forage for roots in the area beyond their temporary settlement. She had needed to relieve herself, but as she squatted by a bush to make water, a Man, a poacher had come into view. 

“Well, well. What do we have here? So it is true about your little hairy women.” 

She was unarmed, so desperately Gimli had slashed his knife towards the Man. He knew if he killed a Man, there would be an avalanche of trouble, so only swung to get between him and Naer. 

Seeing Gimli’s knife, his demeanour had immediately changed. “Just being friendly, like. No need for all that!” 

Gimli and Naer had taken the opportunity to quickly return to the settlement. Because of her naturally chalk-white hair and beard Naer was distinctive, and it seemed the story had spread. Gimli would be asked by Men of that town, “where is your lady friend? The one with the snowy beard. We just wanted to show her a good time, we were all a bit curious, like. Maybe _you_ could tell us - is she both?” Then would come a ribald laugh and songs about ‘the bearded lady’. Gimli was lucky they did not think to ask him for ‘proof’ that he was not also a dam. Maybe they could not imagine a female with such a gruff and scowling face as his. He would not have agreed to ‘prove’ anything, in any case as the Khazad would never confirm or deny their sex to strangers, sometimes even to Men they had known for the Man’s whole lifetime. 

She and her brothers had dyed their hair black, and their family group had never joined Gimli’s again on that circuit. He had seen her many years later in a tavern in Erebor, hair and beard gleaming white. They had acknowledged each other with a nod, but had had no desire to revisit that incident. 

When Boromir and Gimli returned to the group with the water they had fetched, Gimli heard Boromir make a sound of disgust.

“For fuck’s sake - Am I the only one seeing this?” Boromir muttered.

That very morning, Gimli had seen Pippin trying to shave his face with his little sword. Gimli wondered what new strangeness he would now witness.

At first light, they had roasted and eaten their fill of yesterday’s venison for breakfast. Legolas was now flossing his teeth with strands of his own hair.

“Mahal’s beard, that is vile!” Gimli called out. This was worse even than when the Elf shared bites of his apple with Bill, the pony. It turned Gimli’s stomach. 

“My hair is clean. It is strong. We use our hair for our bow strings, does that disgust you also?” 

Gimli whispered under his breath, low enough that only the Elf would hear. “Bloody leaf-munchers.” 

Another sharp look from the Wizard. Well, perhaps Tharkûn had heard. 

Tharkûn made sure to walk beside Gimli, and spoke beneath the murmur of conversation from the hobbits. “Gimli, Legolas has a gentle heart.” 

Yes, Gimli knew Tharkûn had been taken in, but it was still disappointing to hear further confirmation. Legolas had not five minutes ago looked at Gimli with eyes like an icy winter morning, with no hint of warmth. Those looks were supposed to be from a ‘gentle heart’? Not likely! 

Tharkûn continued, “Gimli, you were never like this before. You are speaking as one who has been personally turned away by Thranduil, refused aid by Mirkwood, hunted by Elves, Imprisoned. But the words do not fit in your mouth. Gimli, I have never known you to be so rude.” 

Gimli answered, “well, maybe Under the Mountain you see me in better company.”

Gimli felt burdened, he wanted to speak of his hurt, to talk to someone, but for so many weeks he had held this hurt close. He no longer knew how to begin to speak of it. Gimli let Tharkûn’s lecture flow over him. “Give Legolas a chance. Do not let Glóin’s hatred poison you.”

The Elf himself had had the audacity to approach Gimli later that day. 

“Gimli, -” Legolas began.

Gimli cut him off. “I do not want my name in your mouth, Elf.”

A momentary expression of hurt on that face was almost instantly covered by a serene, almost expressionless mask. Gimli wondered whether he had imagined that look. 

“Aulë, when he created Dwarves must have mixed in too much stubbornness.” Legolas said.

Aulë must be Mahal then. ‘Stubbornness’ meaning that Gimli would not be taken in.

Legolas continued to speak. “I came to say I do not like it. When you call me that. Leaf muncher. I heard you, earlier.”

 _That had been the point_ , smirked Gimli to himself.

“Besides, I do not eat leaves. I do not like that you call me that.”

“You have called me worse.”

The Elf stared blankly.

“Naug.” Gimli spat.

The Elf had denied it and tried to insult him further with lies.

“No. I did not call you naugrim. You are not.” 

Arguing further was pointless, the others would just glare at him and comfort the Elf.

Gimli had walked away and distracted himself in sharpening his axe.

After this, it seemed as if Legolas had given up speaking Westron and had taken to speaking only in that birdlike Elvish language, so as to further exclude Gimli. Tharkûn had refused to force the Elf to speak in the Common tongue. In fact, Tharkûn had the air of a schoolmaster who was prepared to put up with a certain amount of hijinx before stepping in to intervene. 

Legolas would smile at Tharkûn, sometimes turn a hesitant smile towards Boromir, or nod at Aragorn and the hobbits. Now he was making a point of deliberately turning and walking away from Gimli. 

Aragorn happily conversed with him in Elvish, as did Tharkûn. With less confidence, Frodo could talk with him and even Boromir could strain out a few halting sentences. Merry and Pippin managed even less. Poor Sam, who had taken to running around after Legolas and doing his assigned tasks, did not even get a thank you in Westron and was likewise excluded by the language barrier but he seemed happy to put up with it.

As he spoke that lisping language, Gimli looked at his lips. Mahal, he looked so sweet. He had the hard lines of a warrior, but Gimli remembered how soft he had felt in his arms. How right. That seemed to have been from another life, and perhaps it was. Gimli needed to forget it.

One part Gimli hated about travelling with Mannish caravans was seeing the Men shaving, and he was glad he did not have to see any of his companions doing so. The hobbits and the Elf seemed not to need to do so. Although that very morning, Pippin had been scraping at his face with his short sword in a simulation of shaving for some reason, and had earned himself a cut nose.

Gimli and Gandalf both had respectable beards. The Wizard’s sweeping silver beard hung to his waist. Boromir’s beard remained the same length and he shuddered to see him one morning take out a small polished bronze mirror, half the size of the palm of his hand and a tiny pair of hinged shears. He trimmed his beard and after a few moments of horrified fascination Gimli turned away. 

Aragorn’s ragged beard confused him. Aragorn was a Man, but with the blood of Númenor in his veins. He seemed to not be able to progress beyond a perpetually scruffy stubble, and Gimli was not sure why, without shaving or cutting it, his beard did not grow. Something Elvish in him, perhaps.

That evening, Gimli waited for Legolas to leave the four hobbits, and to sit by Aragorn. Then Gimli approached the hobbits himself. To his great consternation, Gimli discovered that since leaving Rivendell, the hobbits had been drawing squares on the ground, and fashioning game pieces by roughly whittling at sticks. It was as good as drawing a trail and marking a path for any to follow. He had gently admonished them, and had given them the consolation of a new game. Gimli taught the hobbits a simple finger game, usually played by dwarrowlings but which most importantly was quiet, and left no marks. As they grasped the rules, Gimli looked over his shoulder at the Elf. 

Gimli had noticed this Elf was becoming scruffy. No one had ever seen a scruffy Elf before. Gimli would be foolish to deny that they looked lovely. But this Elf was definitely looking scruffy. His hair even had a twig in it. 

After their evening meal Aragorn had whispered something to Legolas and they walked away together into the trees. 

Both came into view from a concealed dip half an hour later.

Aragorn toyed with a small red gem. Gimli could not tell exactly what it was from this distance. It could be a ruby or maybe just a semi-precious red pyrope garnet. But regardless of what it was, Gimli could not help but pull his beard in frustration.

It seemed that the Elf had found another to satisfy his appetites and he emerged from the tree-line, smiling, and freshly braided with Aragorn. Legolas headed towards the hobbits, beaming and his cheeks were suffused with colour. Even in this low evening light, most Dwarves could still see in full colour. Gimli remembered that flush. A weight of disappointment pressed upon Gimli’s shoulders and bowed his head. Disappointment in what?

That Gimli had thought more of Aragorn than to be promised to one, yet tumble with another? He knew not what arrangement Aragorn and Arwen had between themselves. In fact, he knew only Bilbo’s gossip. Aragorn had not spoken at all of her and seemed to be very private when it came to such affairs of the heart. 

Gimli should have known the Elf took such things lightly - after all he had tumbled Gimli and departed without even sharing his name. 

Gimli thought of all the times Gimli had seen the Elf from his balcony in Rivendell. Sometimes the Elf would be walking with Aragorn, sometimes even with hair wet from the baths. They would be laughing and exchanging private smiles. It was nothing to do with him, but Gimli could not help but speak up when Aragorn sat beside him by the fire.

Gimli growled. “Aragorn. Did you accept the gem for your services, or is it for your silence?”

Aragorn responded with that infuriatingly calm voice of his. “Peace, friend. I know not what causes you such sudden agitation.”

Gimli was speaking now in a hissed whisper. “So, Arwen is fine with you fucking the closest available Elf when she’s not around to fuck?”

Suddenly, the affable Ranger was gone and a stony faced king loomed in his place. In a whisper to match Gimli’s he replied. “Speak not of that which you know not, Gimli son of Glóin.” The Man’s eyes were steel. 

Gimli’s flash of anger had lent him the recklessness to continue speaking, in spite of that look. “I saw you emerge from the grove. I saw that you braided his hair - I thought you were honourable, yet you receive pay for favours.”

Aragorn’s hands tightened on the hilt of his knife, but he seemed to swallow, and collect himself before he spoke. “Are you confused above ground, Master Dwarf?”

“I know what I saw - “

Aragorn seemed to strain to keep control of his temper, then laughed ruefully, “I did not braid him. I kept him company on a private matter. And you have seen he loves to give gifts to all.”

Gimli wondered to himself. Is this why people said ‘Elves don’t fuck’? That they paid again and again for the silence of their conquests? Had Legolas simply forgotten to bid Gimli be silent after Dale?

The wry chuckle from Aragorn as he looked at the red stone in his hands caused Gimli’s anger to flare again. Even from here Gimli could see one corner was chipped. The light would never refract properly. 

“You abase yourself thus for a flawed gem.”

Aragorn walked away. 

In Rivendell, Gimli had begun to form a camaraderie with Aragorn; they were both experienced in travel, but Gimli had more experience leading groups of inexperienced travellers and they had bonded over sharing tips. But once the Elf had befriended Aragorn, Gimli felt a marked coolness between them. 

Gimli had never been a jealous sort of lover. When his affairs came to their natural ends, he wished his partners well. Why could he not just forget this? Why did he feel like there was an Orcish grip around his neck? It was none of his business who any of the others bedded.

But he thought about what Aragorn had said, and observed. The Elf was indeed constantly giving gifts. Usually they were worthless items. “Oh, Sam -” Legolas would speak, trying not to shout. “Sam!” he called out, “I have found a stone which looks like a potato! You like potatoes!” 

“They all look like potatoes when they are covered in mud,” Gimli had muttered under his breath.

Frodo looked bemused and Sam looked honoured. Aragorn gave an uncharacteristic snort. The others further ahead had not seen. Legolas ran back to his position in the vanguard of the group.

The Elf seemed to have brought a pouch of gems with him and was as free with them as a baker giving away stale buns or a miner giving away the excess coal he could not store. “Mithrandir, this one is like your eyes!” and an ice-blue gem was pressed into Tharkûn’s hand as Gimli watched. What was the Elf playing at?

That evening it began to rain, a cold, persistent patter. Aragorn made basic shelters out of woven branches and tarpaulin. Boromir and the hobbits arranged their bedding beneath one. Another canvas was stretched over branches, with space for three bedrolls. Gimli did not look forward to sleeping close to Aragorn and the Elf. 

Aragorn had laid his bedroll between Legolas and Gimli and seemed to have fallen asleep as soon as he lay down. Legolas lay rigidly next to Aragorn and Gimli stared at the tarpaulin above them, smelling the damp, tarred canvas and feeling the discomfort of his armour as he lay on his back.

The camp was still and quiet, and Tharkûn was on watch. The Elf stirred, and reached over Aragorn’s sleeping form to place a gem by Gimli’s bedroll. It was a small gem, nearly the size of Gimli’s smallest nail. The coloured stone was semi-precious - and the colour of Gimli’s hair. A Spessartite garnet. Where would Legolas have found this? It was very rare. Glóin wore a ring with a similar gem, but the cut of the stone was different, so Legolas had not stolen that. Gimli must immediately reject it, but could not so easily dispel the accompanying thoughts.

Was the Elf trying to proposition him? At the thought, Gimli’s body stirred traitorously. And on the same day as being with Aragorn? While he lay asleep between them. Had the Elf no shame?

Gimli had acknowledged to himself that he still found the Elf physically attractive. The warmth pooled in his belly. 

Gimli did not have a ‘type’. With Fili, plump dams had always caught his eye. When Gimli had first earned his warriors’ braids, he had noticed an increase of a certain kind of attention in taverns. And he knew the fiery colouring of his hair also attracted admirers, but to Gimli, however, his companion’s nature more than their appearance drew him in. Of course, he liked a glossy beard as much as the next Dwarf, but for him it was more than just physical attractiveness, or even what parts they had. He had been laughed into bed more than once, and sometimes curiosity was enough, like in his Mannish encounters of the past. Of course, he knew not to risk bedding any women. Men often treated them as possessions, to be violently guarded and not to be touched by another, rather than leaving it to the choice of the individual. It was strange. There were also rumours that some of the Dwarves of Erebor had left women in Dale with child, resulting in some of the shorter Men in the town. Gimli did not know how true it was, but would not risk fathering a child under such circumstances.

So why was Gimli’s body awake to the possibility when Gimli knew the Elf was malicious?

And why was he giving this to Gimli. Did he wish to pay once more to dally with him? Here, in the company of everyone? Disgust and anger fought with a small voice, which whispered, wondered. ‘Would you? Unknowingly you were once bought, but would you now willingly sell your honour? Shave your honour?’, but as Dís had said, he could not think with his prick. In a moment he came out of the daze and recognised the gem for the insult it was.

“So, you would be braided by Aragorn, then offer me this? I am not your whore.” The Elf looked shocked. Perhaps he had never before been refused. Perhaps the beauty of an Elf had never before failed to captivate.

When Gimli came out of the shelter he had responded in the only appropriate way; crushing the gem into the soft, muddy earth with his boot. 

But though he rejected the Elf’s advances, he could not forget them. 

The rain tapped on Gimli’s helm and he pulled on his oiled cloak, tugging up the hood against the inclement weather, unable to hear the Elf’s angry, hissed whisper behind him. Thankfully, it was only a light rain but it was persistent and without shelter, it would soak through everything. Those who had grown up in Erebor hated rain most of all about being Above the Mountain but Gimli was used to it. Instead of cooking, that evening they had chewed on the roasted meat saved from yesterday’s hunt and they ate the last of the Rivendell apples. Gimli had saved his apple in a pocket of the cloak, and now bit into it as he stood in the rain. 

The rain seeped through the articulation of Gimli’s armour leaving him damp and irritable, Earlier in the day, the Elf had seemed to be enjoying it. His ears had twitched as the drops of rain hit them. Gimli remembered that they had seemed - sensitive. He wondered what else could make them twitch like that -

“Ah, I’m glad for an opportunity to be able to speak with you not to be overheard.” Even as he spoke, the wind rushed through the trees. Sit with me, young Gimli,” Tharkûn had called out. The old Wizard was ready to lecture him yet again. Gimli knew that look. He would talk about being nice to the Elf. That the Elf meant well. He might as well say that quartz grew on trees.

Gimli finished the apple, core and stem, then walked over to the fallen log on which Tharkûn sat.

Sitting in the rain keeping watch, even with his wide brimmed hat, somehow the Wizard did not look as wet as he ought to have been. Gimli drew his oilskin cape close around him as he sat close to Tharkûn. Gimli decided to swing first. “I’m sick of that fucking Elf.” Gimli had just needed to express his feelings and prepared to ignore the stream of platitudes Tharkûn would undoubtedly direct towards him.

Instead Tharkûn had looked at Gimli and said, “you do not trust me.”

Gimli frowned. Why was he saying that?

“Dwarrow have suspicious natures. Your people guard their secrets and are also quick to resentment.” A few beats of silence passed. “I have been a part of your life even longer than that warrior’s braid of yours, yet you do not fully trust me.”

Gimli did not say anything, but did not disagree either.

“The Khazad are a people quick to suspicion and distrust. In all my long years among Mahal’s children I have never been named ‘Khuzdbâha - Dwarf-friend’.”

That truth hung in the silence between them. 

“And in you, those suspicious and distrustful tendencies have been made worse by Glóin and Nori.” 

Gimli bristled and thought of what to say in their defence but was deflated when Tharkûn said, “Nori was always one of my favourites. But you know better than most that Nori has reasons for being the way he is. He has seen more hardship than the poverty which was common during the exile from Erebor. He faced difficulties beyond the usual privations. Kindness was rare for him to encounter outside his family, and in his world, to be overly trusting was to be foolish. This approach has served him in his work, but maybe not so well in life.”

Gimli could not contradict a single thing Tharkûn had said.

“And Glóin.” 

Gimli wondered whether he would now berate him for all his antics in Rivendell, but instead Tharkûn said, “for the sake of his family, Glóin underwent many hardships and they left a permanent mark on him. A scar beyond the healing of this world. He finds some comfort in his anger.”

Though the rain continued around them and the air was cold and sharp, Gimli felt drawn into a bubble of silence with Tharkûn. As he spoke, Tharkûn did not neglect his watch, and scanned the trees around him and the shelters containing the sleeping Fellowship. 

Gimli could not find fault with what he had said about Nori and his father. To defend them with false words would be to have conceded his point. Instead, Gimli went back to Tharkûn’s first statement. “Were they wrong not to trust you? Did you not abandon the Company several times?”

“It is true, there were times I needed to attend to other matters.”

“And when will you leave us? When the path darkens, when it becomes difficult, when there is danger?” 

Tharkûn’s eyes were sad. Then he looked at Gimli intently. “You are not a dwarrowling. If you wish to know, I will tell you where I went and why I went. But that knowledge may burden you.”

Waiting to answer, Gimli considered, but he knew he would not be able to resist the tantalizing knowledge and he knew better than to think this offer would be repeated. Gimli nodded.

“There were two reasons I had to leave. Firstly, Thorin needed to learn to lead. He had earned the title ‘Oakenshield’ on the battlefield, but of all the kinds of leadership, leading in battle is the easiest. In the time of exile, after his father and grandsire had both been lost, he had still been in his sister’s shadow. Though she was younger, Dís is - forceful. Thorin’s confidence had been shattered by the fact that the Khazad had not rallied behind him to retake Erebor; only a motley handful of close relations and acquaintances had answered his call, when he had expected an army. If I had been there all the time, he would not have had a chance to lead. People are canny. A leader without confidence can be smelt for leagues. So even if he had reclaimed Erebor and sat on the throne for more than a few days, some might have preferred Dís’ leadership, a known quantity. Others might have called for Dáin. A recipe for unrest at a time it could least be tolerated.”

For a few minutes Gimli sat and thought about what Tharkûn had said. He could argue with none of it. Tharkûn did not press for a response. Eventually Gimli asked, “and the other reason.”

“I was preparing for, and leading an attack on Dol Guldur, to drive the Necromancer from his fortress and back to Mordor.”

Tharkûn paused.

“There is more, isn’t there? Speak it,” Gimli said. 

“Thráin was still alive. A prisoner in Dol Guldur. We freed him.”

Gimli reeled back in shock. King Thráin. He blinked, taking in the words, then after a few moments he tugged his braid, thinking. “Why was he not then on Erebor’s throne? When Thorin died, why did Dáin step in if Thráin was alive?”

“We freed him. Yes.”

“But?” Gimli could feel Tharkûn’s reluctance to speak.

“But he was broken by his years of captivity.”

Gimli reached out and grasped Tharkûn’s hand. He did not know if it was in agitation, or seeking comfort. “So you freed the rightful king of Erebor in your spare time, then stormed the Enemy’s fortress while also helping the Company. What did you do with him then?” 

“Thráin offered a last act of service to Erebor.”

Gimli understood the look in Tharkûn’s eyes. “He killed himself, didn’t he?”

“He recognised that his mind was gone. That he could not rule. He did not grasp the complexities, the potential for war that brought, but he knew he could not rule. As precious as dwarrowlings are, Gimli, it is not unknown for those born with what some would call ‘defects’ to be exposed to the elements. A physically and mentally broken king is not what the Khazad wanted to see. I will not comment on whether or not that was right, but that is what ended up happening.” After a long silence Gimli almost missed the words. “He was my friend.”

A part of Gimli wondered. No doubt Tharkûn would call it Nori’s influence. Had it perhaps been inconvenient to the Wizard himself to bring to Erebor a broken king? Had he maybe killed the king himself? Gimli had never had to ponder such things before. If the king had had some awareness, he certainly would have lain upon his own dagger.

“Did you honour his remains?”

Tharkûn nodded.

“Who else knows?”

“Nori, King Dáin. I don’t know who else they have told.” 

The rain pattered on Gimli’s hood. “How did Nori find out?” 

“He was trying to follow what had happened to Thrór’s Ring of Power. He gave it to his son Thráin, but when we freed Thráin from Sauron’s grasp he no longer had it. That is presumably the same ring offered by the Black Rider these few months ago.”

Gimli pondered what Erebor could have achieved with a Ring of Power. Would it be much different from the prosperity it now enjoyed?

“Why are you telling me all this, Tharkûn.”

“Because, as I said, you are no longer a dwarrowling. You are going to have to make some difficult decisions, and I want you to understand that things are not always as straightforward as you may have thought. You can no longer be told what to think, like a child. You must come to a place where your opinions are your own.”

Gimli knew it would be pointless, but he still needed to warn Tharkûn about the dangers of travelling with Legolas. Elves were cruel. That was a fact. Yes, Legolas had been endlessly patient with Pippin, singing to him and telling him tales as often as he requested, and always with a cheerful smile. Well, it was not too much for an Elf to sing and to tell foolish Elven tales. “He uses people, Tharkûn. The Elf is dangerous. He is ruthless.”

Tharkûn looked at him intently. Gimli wondered if he was looking into Gimli’s mind as many said he could. “Let me speak to you of ruthlessness, Gimli. One of the most ruthless people I have ever met was your beloved Thorin.”

He paused to allow Gimli’s shock to pass.

“His own father had disappeared in an attempt to reclaim Erebor, yet Thorin was determined to try again himself. At the cost of his heirs, of his own life, he succeeded. He would have sacrificed every last member of the Company, your father included, if that is what was needed to secure Erebor.”

“The Gold Sickness was not his fault.” Gimli blurted out.

“I am not speaking of that.”

Gimli’s breathing was now something he needed to focus on, something that he could hold onto in this shifting terrain.

“Indeed,” Tharkûn continued. “His own grandfather Thrór had left the poverty of Dunland to try and seek the wealth of the Khazad. Thrór had left with one other and did not return.”

Tharkûn was now speaking emphatically. “Thorin’s own father had already been lost in an attempt to reclaim Erebor.” 

Gimli did not interrupt when Tharkûn continued. “So Thorin saw those two failures, yet more important to Thorin than anything was the desire to restore Erebor to his people. He took with him three who were barely past their majority. He took with him one with severe battle-damage. He took with him those bound to him by ties of kinship and affection. He took parents of young children on a mission with no chance of success. He gambled both his own heirs. He gambled his own life and lost it. But he was happy when he died because Erebor had been freed from the dragon and he knew more dwarrow lives could be thrown against any Orcs who tried to seize Erebor. As I said. One of the most ruthless of all.”

Gimli pulled the hood down to cover his face fully, and watched the rain. When Gimli tried to speak his voice cracked. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Tharkûn smiled sadly. “You are one of the leaders of your people. All who the Valar chose for this journey are leaders among their people or will be, when the older generations cede their places. Even young master Gamgee. Though he has no title or wealth, among the common folk of the Shire, the name Gamgee commands much respect.” 

“Why then are there no men of Rohan? Why no Easterlings?” 

“The direction of Men comes from Gondor, which is represented here.”

Gimli was always thoughtful when listening in on discussions pertaining to matters of state. He knew better than to speak hastily. He waited for Tharkûn to continue.

“Gimli, leaders sometimes need to know things which they would rather not know.“

The rain continued to tap out a small tune on his armour where it was not covered by the cloak and to run down his beard. Gimli moved his toes. At least his feet were still dry. 

Tharkûn carried on. “Thorin was doomed to failure. He took with him an inexperienced group which ended up being captured by trolls in its early days, a month after leaving the Shire. Without the intervention of the Valar through my timely arrival, the Company would have been eaten by trolls, their bones dishonoured. The Valar intervened to save them. Do you acknowledge this, Gimli?”

Gimli nodded. How could anyone argue against that?

“Then once again, the Valar interceded when the Company escaped a mountain full of goblins, after being captured. The Valar intervened yet again when the Eagles of Manwe snatched them from the grasp of Azog when they had the choice of his tender mercies or a fall to their deaths. And again, when they were saved from the Spiders of Mirkwood. And again the Valar guided the son of the very king who captured them, to move his heart to release them. On the only day of the year that it would open they reached the secret door of Erebor, and they found it.” 

“By the Valar,” Gimli supplied sardonically.

Tharkûn spoke as if reciting a lesson to a class. “Just so. By the Valar. And by the luck of a little boy hearing a bird and understanding it and being listened to. And by the luck of a Man shooting two ancient arrows, passed down from father to son - a Man who had never used a Black Arrow before. Then at the last moment war was averted.”

When the story was retold at home, the praise went to Mahal, but Gimli agreed that the luck which had followed the Company was beyond anything ordinary.

“Can you deny the hand of the Valar in the restoration of Erebor, Gimli?”

“Of course, it was the Valar. So, all this was to tell me I mustn't make the Valar angry by giving one of their precious Elves a hard time?”

Tharkûn seemed to sag in disappointment as Gimli spoke.

“You told me all that for the sake of your precious princeling?” Gimli spat onto the muddy ground. “You know what the Elves have done to my people, am I expected to just forget it?”

The air around him seemed to be filled with static. Tharkûn glowered at Gimli. The wizard’s fierce eyebrows lowered as he spoke.

“Yes there have been many conflicts between the children of Mahal and the First Children.”

“We were the first children.”

“Regardless, the Elves and the Khazad have a bitter history, but I want you to think, Gimli.”

Gimli wished he had brought his pipe. He pulled at a loose thread in his cloak, “I’ll think about how the Elves of Beleriand hunted Dwarves for sport, like animals.”

“That is true.” Tharkûn spoke with great sorrow. “Yes, they did so in ignorance. You are right, there are many atrocities which are hard to forgive. But think of this. Legolas has not done so. The Valar have brought to you the one Elf with no Dwarf blood on his hands.” Tharkûn paused, allowing the image to play out in Gimli’s mind.

Tharkûn’s voice was conciliatory. “Yes, you could argue that Legolas’ aid was not praiseworthy when he rescued the Company from the Spiders, simply a moral duty. And similarly, you could say that when he rescued them from his own father’s dungeons, he was simply righting a wrong and it does not deserve thanks.”

Gimli did not want to be reminded about the Life-Debt. 

“Gimli, why do you think Legolas was chosen for this journey?”

Gimli sighed, but Tharkûn stopped him before he began to speak. “I do not mean Elrond’s politics. I speak of the Valar’s reasons.”

Gimli sat back to listen.

“I do not presume to speak for the Valar, but I will share my thoughts. Legolas is one of the youngest Elves in Middle-earth. Certainly the youngest in a ruling family. You know the Elves are leaving Arda, but not all Elves are the same. The Wood Elves will remain. Thranduil may sail to join his wife, and his eldest son is Sindar through and through, raised in the court; he may also sail eventually. But Legolas and his brother who you saw in Rivendell, were raised to love the forest here and are both bound to Middle-earth.”

“So what?”

“So, the Valar brought this group together, future leaders of Middle-earth. If the Enemy is to be defeated, it must be done together. Even if the Enemy is defeated and a fractured Arda is the inheritance, what will be the benefit to any of your peoples of more war? Though it may not be the forces of the Enemy, the loss of life at the hand of a Man or an Elf will be the same. Do you want in Mirkwood, at Erebor’s doorstep, an Elf with a personal grudge against you, beyond the issues history has spun and rewritten?

“Gimli, Legolas has heard many stories but _personally_ he has never been wronged by a Dwarf. The Valar brought us the only Elf never to have personally witnessed or participated in the hostility between Elves and Dwarves except peripherally in the events connected to the Dragon. Even then he has provided aid when he could.”

Tharkûn paused to let that sink in before continuing. “Now, Gimli, _you_ are seeking to single-handedly make him dislike the Khazad with your pettiness, and discourtesy. A thousand small taps may crumble a boulder just as well as a single mighty blow. You are doing everything you can to make him hate Dwarves. You are being like a dwarrowling, not only in the actions themselves, but in refusing to think for yourself and blindly following Nori’s distrust of everyone, and Glóin’s particular fear, mingled with hatred.”

Gimli hung his head. But he had not imagined what the Elf had done to him in Dale.

“Gimli, when Glóin began what your family called one of his ‘Elf rants', even Bifur would remember the Westron for ‘shut up’. You never used to agree with Glóin. What has changed?”

Tharkûn’s hand was on his shoulder and the rain was dripping off both of them, but Gimli hardly noticed it. All this new information was settling like a heavy stone in his core.

“Gimli, it was no coincidence that you found yourself at Elrond’s Council. Now, every evening by the fire you sit with two great leaders of Men. You will not like this, but it is in Men we must place our hope. The Elves depart and the Dwarves dwindle. And you sit with those destined to lead the Shire, and you know well not to underestimate those small people. You sit by one who has influence in Mirkwood. Do you want Dwarves to have a voice in the new world, or do you want to show the peoples of Middle-earth that they are indeed as petty, and stubborn as is rumoured?”

Gimli wished that Tharkûn would just shout now. His voice was so gentle and Gimli squeezed his eyes shut. “The Valar sent us a clean slate, now you are marking it with antagonism.” 

“Gimli, you have been acting like a dyspeptic badger, growling and swiping its claw. Now I admit I did not know you as well as I would have liked before this journey, but you were spoken of by all as a level-headed sort of lad. Sensible. Open-minded.” 

The gentle hand squeezed his wet shoulder again. 

“Gimli, lad. I know your temperament is not as intractable as Gloin’s - you take after your mother and she is an eminently sensible dam. Tell me, what is at the bottom of this?” 

Gimli remained silent.

Tharkûn seemed to look right through him. “Gimli, I see now that I was mistaken. It is not prejudice or hatred fuelling you. It is hurt. What has hurt you?”

Gimli drew in a breath.

Tharkûn preempted him and said. ”I am not asking you to list the little things he has been doing to you. And I know it was not a single, unsaid word.” _Naug_ hung in the air between them. 

Like billowing steam from water poured onto hot iron, Gimli’s feelings surged up. Gimli waited until he was collected, then decided to speak.

“We met before.”

Tharkûn’s eyes looked knowing, but as if he wished Gimli to speak for himself.

So Gimli continued. “In Dale.”

There were still hours remaining of this watch. Tharkûn seemed to be prepared to wait all night for Gimli to speak. “He - he tricked me. He used me for information.”

Tharkûn was very silent for a few beats.

“Nori said -”

Tharkûn cut him off. “The Elvenking does not seek out information about Dwarves. He prefers to pretend they do not exist until it is unavoidable.”

That was what Legolas had said in Rivendell.

“Well, maybe Legolas decided to act without the Elvenking’s direct orders. To please him.”

Tharkûn actually snorted. 

“I don’t doubt that you met in Dale, and I don’t doubt that you - spoke. But I thought you were a keen observer. I thought Nori had taught you well in that respect. I do not know why you cannot see this.”

“See what?”

“Gimli, you know of what your people call ‘Erebor dumplings’. Soft and coddled dwarrowlings, born to plenty. Their parents do them no kindness in indulging every whim. Legolas is not soft, but he has been coddled similarly. Yes, he is a skilled fighter, and wise in the ways of nature, but - he is a dumpling, Gimli. He is Mirkwood’s darling.”

Tharkûn continued. “Your own perceptions, Gimli. When you first saw him. What did they tell you? Your own perceptions can easily be wrong, it is true, but what will you believe? What Nori thinks is true based on second hand information? What Glóin thinks is true, fueled by centuries of hurt?”

Gimli remembered the wide-eyed wonder and soft smiles in the Boar’s Head.

“And tell me Gimli. Was he with a full patrol of Elves?”

“He was alone.”

“Would an Erebor dumpling be allowed to wander alone outside the mountain?”

“No, but -”

“I can tell you right now that Thranduil would never have sent him to travel alone. His brother has returned to Mirkwood and I imagine his father is furious that he is here now in the Fellowship. Have you ever asked him why he was there, in Dale? I can anticipate your next point. Maybe he decided to spy to please his father with new information, to take the initiative without having been sent. Gimli, Legolas knows his father. He knows the Elvenking’s anger and that he does not wish to hear of Dwarves. Thranduil has never wished to monitor their doings. After Doriath, he likes to pretend that they do not exist, apart from if they stumble into his lap as the Company did and then could not be ignored.”

The rain drummed on for a long stretch, now dripping in large ‘plops’ as the drops collected in the trees above them. 

“If he talked to you, Gimli, it was just that. Talking.”

Gimli shook his head. “Did he send you to speak to me?”

Tharkûn was still speaking gently. “Of all of us, apart from myself and Aragorn, you are probably the most capable of traversing the wilds alone. It would not be my choice, but if your animosity with Legolas continues to cause disruption, I might ask you to make your way back, alone, to Rivendell. Or if you have had your fill of Elves, to travel to Bree, to the Shire or to the Beornings and wait out the siege there.” Tharkûn continued to squeeze his shoulder. 

“No, but I would not do that. I will not send you away. The Valar clearly wish for you to be here. It is clear that unity is needed to defeat the Enemy. All I ask is that you comport yourself in a manner befitting a Lord of Erebor. And do you think I would do the bidding of a ‘dumpling’? Of one who is barely older than an oak tree?

“Gimli, anyone can find dirt. It takes wisdom to find gold. Do you have the maturity to look, Gimli?” 

Gimli countered, “everything has its limit. Iron can not be made into mithril, no matter how hard one tries.”

_How long had they sat thus?_

Tharkûn asked very gently, “is there anything you need to talk about, Gimli?”

“No.”

They continued to sit together in silence, as Gimli’s thoughts tumbled in turmoil. Gimli was glad of the rain when Boromir came to change watch with Tharkûn. In this darkness a Man would not notice the tracks of tears in any case. Gimli lent the Man his oilproof cloak to wear over his surcoat and Tharkûn remained as Boromir took Gimli’s place beside him. 

As Gimli lay on Boromir’s bedroll beside the hobbits, he remained awake, thinking of all Tharkûn had spoken of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spessarite: an orange, semi-precious stone. Now you know.
> 
> There is a story called 'Floss' by telemachus which talks about Legolas flossing with his hair, and another one of their stories talks about sharing an apple with Arod, but I can't remember which.
> 
> I took liberties with canon - 2850 is when Thráin was rescued, 2941 is when the White Council took Dol Guldur, but I mashed them together. Map and key? Gandalf just got them before - somehow.
> 
> I have been so supported in writing this chapter! Thanks to Cassunjey, Aylwyyn228 and Aquamarina (acdaniels on AO3) for spelling and grammar help, beta-ing and for everything. LichtSchwert and I had an extended and detailed conversation about the story overall which was very helpful. Check out their stories when you get a chance!
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback! To know that an actual person is reading my story really makes my day! I would love to hear what you thought.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love the fanfic community and people have been so generous with their time in helping me build this story. Thanks for the reader reaction from ac_daniels (Aquamarina), and for all Alywyyn228's time, especially for all the insightful advice. For this chapter de_la_cruz_87's mark ups made me feel like an illiterate panda - but in a good way! Thanks for the cheerleading!
> 
> I'm so grateful also for all the feedback and thank you to everyone reading!

Legolas lay beneath the tarpaulin and walked in reverie.

He was back in the Woodland Realm on his first patrol, brimming with excitement. Of age for decades now and fully trained, Legolas had finally persuaded father to allow him to join the patrols which sought out and destroyed new nests. His brothers Lastedir and Opherion were not usually part of this patrol, but they had left their duties and joined Legolas for his first sortie. His quiver was full and the troop was ready now to split into smaller groups of twos and threes. Legolas was partnered with a young Silvan named Tauriel, and the patrol leader Taraslas himself accompanied them, together with Opherion.

When a Spider eventually came into view, Tauriel sprang up, ready to fire upon it. Opherion had held out his hand - wait. He gestured for Legolas to approach it with his knives, while the other two stood at attention, bows drawn. 

It was a small Spider, but Legolas was stunned at the amount of malice radiating from it. In a single movement, Legolas landed on its back. With his strong, mithril knife, he used all his strength and penetrated its armoured abdomen. Legolas felt sick at the crunch and at the feeling of life ebbing away from it. His hands were covered in black blood. Tauriel had quickly brought her canteen of water for him to wash it off. Opherion looked at him with pride and simply nodded. 

Tauriel and Taraslas disposed of the carcass by burning it and that evening they feasted, with father bringing out his headiest Dorwinian wine. 

As Legolas woke under the tarpaulin, the rain was still a gentle patter. Estel had taken the last watch and was sitting on the log, his heavy Ranger’s cloak dark with rain. Boromir had been asleep on Gimli’s unused bedroll and was now stretching awake beside Legolas, packing it away and readying himself to walk with Gimli to the stream and fetch water. The hobbits were still sleeping. 

As he watched Boromir walk over to Gimli, a movement beside Legolas startled him.

“Ah, Legolas. You are awake.”

“Mithrandir.” Legolas did not know what to say. What did one say to a Maia? He now stood as Legolas lay, looking down with those eyes of his. 

“I have a question.”

Legolas waited.

“Do you think you are above us all here?”

Legolas’ mouth hung open in shock.

Mithrandir was smiling, his eyes twinkling, waiting for an answer. 

Legolas scrambled to sit up. “No! Of course not! Why would you ask that?”

“We have represented here a Lord of Erebor, a King of Men, the heir of the Steward of Gondor.” Mithrandir nodded across to the sleeping hobbits. “And the nobility of the Shire. And me. Yet you alone do not toil. I was wondering if you felt above them all, as a Prince of Elves?”

Legolas began to stammer, he did not know why Mithrandir would talk so. He did not know what to say. 

“No,” was all he could whisper. 

“Yes, you train the hobbits, you have kept watch and you have hunted. That is admirable. But apart from that, how are you contributing to the tasks of the journey? Why does Sam do all your work for you?”

Relieved, Legolas relaxed and smiled. 

“Oh! Sam likes it! He has said he likes to do things for me.”

“Legolas,” Mithrandir began to puff on his pipe, still smoking despite the rain. “Do you know that among Men, some would assign value to the life of another according to how much coin they have?”

Legolas tilted his head in confusion.

“And that some say a person without coin is a person without value?”

Now Legolas looked dismayed, but still confused. 

_What did that have to do with anything?_

“The Shire is a delightful place, however some of the worst features of Men do find their way there, and unfortunately that is one idea which has found a foothold. Did you know that because his family has little coin, Sam thinks everyone here is better than him?”

Legolas could still not understand the connection.

“And he is fascinated by Elves. He is in awe of you.” Mithrandir was looking at Legolas intently. “Save for an instruction to do harm to Frodo, he would in all likelihood, do anything you asked of him, Legolas. Because you are an Elf. And because you are a prince.”

Legolas shook his head. _He had just woken up. What was all this?_

“Do you wish to take advantage of Sam because of these things?”

“No!”

“Do you know it irritates everyone to see you do nothing to help while they work? I would have thought you would have noticed that for yourself.”

“But in my patrol-”

“In your patrol, they treated you as an elfling and never let you lift a finger. I saw that for myself, Legolas.”

Legolas felt the heat in his face. This was not how he wanted to be seen here. He had been of age for more than two hundred years. He had come on this journey to get away from ‘Little Acorn’, yet he had brought the role with him.

“What should I do?”

“For a start, you can help me fold away this tarpaulin and your bedroll. You can then ask Boromir, or Estel what else needs to be done.” 

Legolas leapt up. Mithrandir exchanged a look with Estel.

Legolas had seen the tarpaulin being attached to the pony’s pack before. Bill the pony was very patient, but looked at Legolas with a withering gaze as he fumbled with straps. He wanted to ask for help but Boromir was still fetching water and Estel and Mithrandir were consulting the map, so Legolas needed to wait.

Legolas recognised that at home, they did not like to see him sad, and removed anything of discomfort within their power. They could do little about the Orcs and Spiders, but everything else was made pleasant for him. He could not expect it to be like that here.

As he stood with his hand on Bill’s wet mane, he thought about Gimli’s sudden outburst last night. This hostility was taking its toll on Legolas and it was so unpredictable. Sometimes Gimli would seem to mellow, but then would flare up again for no reason. After this latest rebuff, it would perhaps be wise to keep away from him. For good, this time.

Legolas had thought Gimli would like the gem, but he should not have been surprised, as nothing else had worked. When Sam had handed Legolas a choice portion on his plate, Legolas had passed it to Gimli but he had said nothing. He had allowed Gimli the easiest watches so he could rest but he had only looked at Legolas suspiciously. Legolas knew Gimli did not like Bill, and so he had been keeping the beast away from him.

Gimli had not seemed to have noticed the artfully twisted stick that Legolas had placed by his sleeping-roll two nights ago. The fallen leaf Legolas had found and placed on Gimli’s pack had still been green. In Midwinter! But Gimli had brushed the leaf aside without even looking at it. Gimli had not listened to the birds Legolas had sent to sing for him, continuing to talk over their trilling. And then there was last night. 

After Gimli had thrown the gem, Legolas had found it in the mud. Afterwards, he had had to wipe his hands on the canvas of the shelter. Now as he secured the canvas to Bill, the muddy handprints served as a reminder of this. Legolas held the stone in a cupped hand. With his thumb, Legolas brushed some of the mud off. Legolas turned it over a few times, admiring the colour, then enjoying how it looked through the sunlight, and how it looked different in shadow. Eventually, he put the amber-coloured stone back into his pocket.

When he looked up, the others were ready to go. Mithrandir frowned at him. Legolas had not meant to get so lost in his thoughts. He would make up for it when they stopped again. 

They continued to follow the deeply cloven track between tall trees. According to Estel, the spies of Sauron had seldom been seen in this empty stretch and these paths were little known, except to the people of Rivendell. 

Even Boromir noticed and commented that he could ‘tell the trees here seemed more alive, more aware, and did not like strangers’. The most unfriendly ones dropped a branch or stuck out a root to trip them up and the path was not altogether easy. They had packs to carry, and the brambles were reluctant to let them through. Legolas walked at the rear with Bill, both calming him, and urging the plants to make a way for them to pass. 

The mortals were hot, tired and scratched. Mithrandir walked in front, and with him walked Estel, who knew the way even in the dark. The others were in file behind, and Legolas’ keen eyes secured the rearguard. Pippin began to lag behind. At last, as they began to climb a steep slope, Estel had called a halt when the youngest member of the Fellowship had stopped and stood still, saying, “I am so tired that soon I shall fall down on the road.”

They were now ten days from Imladris, and Estel had made the decision that they should try and sleep during the day when they could so they could travel for a few hours under the cover of darkness. They took a few hours of uneasy rest in a hollow of the land, with their packs hidden under the tangled thorn-bushes that grew in the thickets in many places. In the late afternoon they were roused by the watch and took their main meal of the day, cold and cheerless, deciding not to risk the lighting of a fire now they were deep in the wilds.

When the sky changed from blue to deeper blue they went on again, walking as nearly southward as they could find a way. The rain had stopped now. Legolas had liked it. It was cold and had stung but there was a sweetness to it, not like the unhealthsome rains in the Woodland Realm. 

Legolas’ cast his thoughts back to the previous day.

The morning before, when Pippin had tried to shave his face, both Gimli and Legolas had been staring in open fascination, but for different reasons. Gimli’s expression was horrified. Legolas was awash with curiosity.

Merry was beside him, looking on, unimpressed. 

“You can’t even grow a beard, Pip. I don’t know why you are bothering.”

Pippin spoke slowly and clearly, as if to make sure Merry did not get confused. 

“It is because I am not a little fauntling, Merry.”

Merry had responded by saying, “but we don’t _get_ beards, Pip. I don’t know why you are wasting your time. When did you last see a bearded hobbit that wasn’t a Stoor?”

Between them there were five smooth-faced members of the Fellowship. Legolas wondered if Elves could grow beards. He had never thought to ask. He should have asked Lindir, the one who kept the scrolls in Imladris. He had had the look about him of one who had read each and every volume. But maybe he did not know everything, because Lindir had said " _It is not easy for us to tell the difference between two mortals_ _._ " But after only a few days in the company of the Fellowship in Imladris, Legolas had found it was not very difficult at all to tell them apart. But he had not dared contradict Lindir.

In Imladris, instead of interacting with nature, Legolas had noticed that many of the Elves there had spent much of their days reading. At home, he had been aware that his lack of this skill was unusual, but it had not troubled him; it had been treated as a quirk. Then, in Imladris, when he found himself a curiosity for his youth, his accent, for his very presence in Imladris, he did not wish to highlight more about himself that was odd. So he had avoided the topic of reading. He understood it to mean there was yet another strange thing about him for the Imladris Elves to whisper about. He had been honest when he had said he could not read the map, but realised they had misunderstood. He had begun to lie by omission afterwards, and had avoided the library. 

He knew Mithrandir was aware. Father had swallowed his pride and on one of Mithrandir’s visits, and had asked if he had ever heard of any other elfling with similar difficulties. He had not, and had suggested enquiring of Imladris, with their vast library, and scholars. But the Elvenking had been loath to reveal a ‘weakness’, and the subject had not been brought up again. Perhaps Mithrandir believed that, in the intervening centuries, he had overcome this hurdle; but the letters still swam away like tadpoles when Legolas tried to focus his eyes on them. 

When Gimli had finally turned away from Pippin’s shaving, he had spoken in a pained voice. 

“Master Took, I cannot watch, it seems perverse. A beard to a Dwarf is a sacred and private thing, and to cut it is a sign of dishonour or of deep mourning.”

Legolas avoided watching Gimli’s morning ablutions, as it was obvious his beard meant much to him, and to watch felt intrusive.

However, seeing Pippin’s attempts at grooming had highlighted to Legolas himself how he was feeling more and more dishevelled. These ten days on the road, he had shared some moments of unity with members of the group, but he did not feel comfortable enough to come unbound before them all. 

Discreetly, Estel had approached Legolas later that day as he sat watching evening clouds pass, still struck by the novelty of open skies. The hobbits had been speaking to Gimli, engrossed in a game.

“Legolas, do you need privacy to tend to your hair?” Estel had asked.

Legolas had felt the blood rush to his face. 

Estel continued. 

“I have told Gandalf we will be back soon, if you wish it. I will not look, merely keep watch while you find some privacy.”

Relief had washed over Legolas at Estel’s understanding. None of them was permitted to be alone, apart from when visiting the privy, and they were not to wander off into the forest. Even though these trees were not friendly, Legolas believed they would have warned him of approaching danger; however, he had decided early on to abide by all the rules. 

Since Imladris, Legolas had not renewed his braids or combed with more than just his fingers, and he was feeling more untidy than he ever had before. 

Gratefully, Legolas had walked away from the camp with Estel, and, true to his word, Estel was kind enough to offer Legolas privacy to come unbound and to comb. Estel turned away and did not look, and Legolas trusted him not to. He would not have minded combing before the hobbits and Estel, who were now friends, but with the others, even Boromir - it was something too private for them to witness. He deliberately did not think about how he would feel if Gimli were to watch him comb.

Thinking back to the morning of the previous day, when they had watched Pippin ‘shave’, Gimli and Legolas had had yet another spat. Legolas would not stand to be called names; he would not be called ‘leaf-muncher’, and had told Gimli so.

Gimli had then accused Legolas of calling him ‘naugrim’ - and the other word. In the Council, Legolas had said only ‘stone-hearted’. He had not meant to imply the slur contained within the rest of the saying, and had not said it.

“No. I did not call you naugrim.” Legolas felt desperate. “Oh but you are not - “ He searched for the Westron words. He wanted to say “- you are not stunted. Yes, you are short but that is nothing bad. You are beautiful.” But all he could force out was, “you are not.” Legolas was met with silence and that angry glare, never quite meeting his eye. 

As was becoming normal, Gimli stormed off to the other side of the camp. If he had sharpened that axe any further he would have been able to cut the anger radiating from him. 

Perhaps Gimli’s rage would shower down on them all like the rain, except hot, and burning. 

Speaking with Gimli was becoming tiresome. Everything became an argument and Gimli looked through him in a way he did not like, never looking at him properly. 

Why should Legolas make an effort for one who was so rude? Besides, he did not want to be laughed at by Gimli if he made mistakes in Westron. Gimli had not done so, but oh - he could not bear the idea of it. So he would speak in Sindarin; he was comfortable speaking that. 

Mithrandir and Estel could understand him. When he spoke slowly, Frodo could also follow. Boromir seemed to think this was simply the strangeness of Elves. Pippin continued to join in the conversation, interjecting, making gibberish noises then laughing himself into a state. Merry acted as if it were nothing out of the ordinary and that he was used to absurdity happening around him. Sam never complained about anything. 

And Legolas still felt the shock of Gimli’s words last night, accusing Legolas of having allowed himself to be braided by Estel.

That night, as the rain had come down, Legolas had felt optimistic as they climbed under the shelter of the canvas. Legolas had been glad of the privacy, as Estel fell asleep so quickly. They had reclined on their bed-rolls and Legolas had placed the small gem beside where Gimli would lay his head. The sullen resentment which had permanent residence in Gimli’s eyes had flared up into that blazing fury which occasionally made an appearance. But this time, Legolas himself was also almost incandescent with rage. How dare Gimli accuse Legolas of something so scandalous? That Legolas would be braided by Estel! By one whose heart lay elsewhere! 

Gimli had looked at the stone for an eternity - then he had flung it into the soft ground. He had gripped his axe and gritted his teeth. And that word again. _Whore._

“I braided my own hair!” Legolas’ cheeks had burned, and he had been glad that Estel was asleep.

Gimli’s angry gaze had cut through Legolas. And that night he had stepped with his boot upon the gift Legolas had hoped would build peace between them. 

After the failed attempt at reconciliation, Gimli had stormed out into the rain to sit with Mithrandir and this morning, after fetching water with Boromir, Gimli had walked near the front of the column, by Frodo. Legolas had caught Gimli casting glances towards him, but he was too weary of heart to attempt to work out what they meant.

When they stopped, Mithrandir seemed to try to diffuse the strange tension with tales. The Hobbits sat listening to stories of Gil-galad, the Song of Beren Lúthien and other accounts of Middle-earth. Gimli had sat silently, deep in thought. Legolas had wanted to ask for a Dwarvish tale, but at the same time he did not want to cause an argument by asking a question which would vex Gimli, so he had remained silent. 

That night, after Legolas had retrieved the gem from the mud, and after Boromir’s watch was ended, Legolas awoke from reverie, and sat with Estel as he kept watch. Boromir and Tharkun took their places in the bivouac. He could not hear the Dwarf’s light snores but Legolas was certain he and Estel were seated far away enough not to be overheard.

Gimli had said that word again. Perhaps Pippin had not explained the meaning of it correctly. Legolas needed to understand. Estel looked lost in thought and Legolas was reluctant to disturb him, but there was no one else he could ask.

“Estel-” he cut himself off, hesitant.

“Yes?” Estel turned, curious, as he and Legolas often kept long stretches of silence together.

“What is ‘whore’?”

For a long while, Estel looked at him, his gaze intent. He seemed to struggle for words, and when he answered, the colour was high in his face. 

“It is a name, an unkind name, for one who exchanges pleasures of the flesh for payment.” 

_Ah_ , thought Legolas to himself. _So, like those who worked Upstairs_.

_Oh_

The meaning of the word impaled him. _‘I’m not your whore’_. Legolas’ throat tightened and his stomach roiled. Is that what Gimli thought he was attempting to do? 

_Oh Elbereth!_

Gimli thought that of Legolas? That Legolas was attempting to exchange _a stone_ for - pleasure? Surely not. 

Legolas must be mistaken, he must not have understood even though Estel was speaking in plain Sindarin.

Legolas did not interrupt as Estel continued to explain. 

“My understanding is that in - physical - matters. Matters of - of love, Elvenkind cannot be anything but willing. If - if forced, either by brute strength or by coercion, often as not the Elf will separate their fea from their body.” 

Estel looked as if he would rather not have had to speak those words.

Legolas had heard of this and agreed, adding, “We do not go with those unwilling and we do not compel any.”

“But the ways of Men, of mortals, are different,” Aragorn explained.“For Elves, these are not simply matters of pleasure, but tied to vows.”

Legolas spoke again. 

“Perhaps for the Noldor. But not all Elves. Some call Silvans unwise and impatient, that is perhaps one of the reasons - because we are more free with our affections.” 

Aragorn seemed to colour again. 

Legolas thanked Estel and wandered back to the canvas, and lay next to Boromir, deep in thought. Is this what the Dwarf meant? _Whore_. Did he think Legolas was trying to coerce him with the gem? Legolas’ head spun. Dismay and embarrassment gripped him. _Whore_. That is what the old dwarf had said at the Council. _He is not your whore_.

Did he think Legolas had already compelled Gimli? _In Dale?_ Legolas felt ill. A clammy coldness crept through him. _But no!_ In the Tavern, the Dwarf himself had given _Legolas_ his own purse, which seemed to have only a few copper coins within. The tavern woman had told him that would buy a drink. Surely, a night of pleasure could not be bought with so little. Had the old Dwarf been calling _Legolas_ a ‘whore’? No. Gloin had said ‘He’s not your whore’ while gesturing towards Gimli. But Gimli had seemed very willing in Dale.

Legolas was now more confused than before, but dared not ask anyone for clarification. So much outside the Woodland Realm confounded him. He was filled with such awe and wonderment at the new things he was being bombarded with, but this also came with confusion and a feeling of disorientation. Like finding oneself in a strange forest, with no landmarks, unfriendly trees and no markers.

Legolas looked over at Gimli lying next to the hobbits. The mass of beard and hair was firmly wrapped in sleep, and looking at him would yield no answers. 

The next morning, Legolas asked Estel what help he needed and he gestured for Legolas to assist with loading the pony. Estel continued the conversation from last night as if there had been no pause. Legolas had come to recognise this as an Elven habit, and he smiled into the canvas he secured it.

“I was not sure whether to divulge this or not, but I have thought on it. First I must ask you something.” Estel’s hands stopped their work. “Was it Gimli who said this word to you?”

Surprised, Legolas’ smile slid from his face and he looked at Estel.

“He approached me after I accompanied you - to comb.” Estel coughed, then clenched his jaw before speaking. Legolas could see him considering his words. “He did not say the word, but he implied it. He accused me of - of being with you and being paid with a gem.”

“Paid? You are my friend. We are not in a tavern, there is no ale. Pay for what? I understand you not.”

Estel looked very embarrassed. 

“For - pleasure.”

Legolas’ head spun. None of this made sense. 

“But you are not a pleasure worker, and neither am I! I do not understand” Legolas’ heart sank. So Gimli _had_ also seen the amber gem as some form of coercion, to entice him into pleasure? And the coin in Dale also? Legolas groaned in frustration. He felt sick. That was not what he had meant. Had Gimli been travelling with that misapprehension for all this time? For all these weeks together in Imladris? _Shit._ No wonder he was angry. Dismay welled up inside him.

How was he going to explain that the gem was a gift of goodwill? Not anything to do with _whore_. Legolas felt too embarrassed to speak of such things. He was not used to it. He did not know how. And how had Gimli’s father come to say the word? Because of the coin? Legolas’ feet carried him automatically as he sunk into his thoughts. How would he speak to Gimli? This was not something to discuss before the group, but Gimli would not agree to a private discussion. _What was he to do?_

This did not feel real. It felt like a bad dream. He did not know how to rectify this.

They walked in their usual formation, keeping close together so that they could speak without having to shout. Legolas walked with Bill. The hobbits walked with Boromir in their midst, with Gimli ahead of them and Mithrandir and Estel leading. 

The conversation had covered favourite songs already, and by the time they stopped for the afternoon meal they had all sung something, even Gimli and Mithrandir. 

Now they walked again, and the conversation came to stories. Frodo called across. 

“Legolas, what kind of stories do you like to read?”

He found himself pulled from his thoughts. Legolas could have avoided the wording of the question and spoken of his favourite tales, but he would not do so. He had been thinking, and it was important for them to be honest with each other. There were enough misunderstandings without adding deliberate dissembling to their interactions. This Fellowship was a noble calling. Elrond had emphasised that they were all there of their own free will, none of them bound to journey with the Ringbearer. The Fellowship would be diminished if there were lies between them. Even small ones.

Legolas stopped walking. 

“I am not able to read.”

Legolas noticed the looks of surprise being exchanged before he looked down at his hands.

The hobbits and Boromir also stopped. 

Frodo looked confused. 

“Do you mean you read only Tengwar script?”

Legolas pressed his hands on his cheeks to cool them. Now Gimli, Estel and Mithrandir had stopped walking. 

“No.” Legolas’ voice was small. “I can not read anything.”

But you’re a prince!” Sam exclaimed.

Legolas did not know what to say to that.

Frodo seemed to be trying to understand someone telling him _all_ mushrooms were poisonous. 

“Do you mean Wood Elves can’t read?”

“No, just me. I could never get the way of it.”

“So even Westron?”

“None of it. I can not read anything.” Legolas was growing tired of saying it.

Legolas could not tell if the hobbits’ expressions of surprise contained pity or contempt. Now that he was outside of the cocoon of his home, he knew it was seen as a real deficiency.

Sam was still stuck on the same idea. 

“But you’re a prince. Only common folk have them what can’t read.”

Legolas did not know what to say.

“What’s going on back there?” 

Gimli, Mithrandir and Estel were now walking back toward them. Legolas did not look up.

“What’s happening?” Mithrandir repeated.

“He can’t read!” Pippin shouted back, with the last word cut off as he was elbowed in the ribs by Merry. The helpful expression was replaced with a shamefaced one.

“But, but you’re not daft!” Sam continued. 

Legolas did not know what to say.

“Of course he’s daft.” Gimli’s voice was light and pleasant. The words cut Legolas to the quick. “As daft as any other Elf. But daft’s got nothing to do with it.”

Legolas dared to raise his eyes. Boromir was looking at Legolas as if he had two heads. Legolas recalled how he said his brother Faramir spent much of his time with the dust of scrolls upon him. 

Mithrandir was staring hard at Gimli.

“What do you mean, Gimli?” asked Sam.

“‘Tis just a letterless head.* That’s all. Aye, ‘tis unusual. I did not know Elves could have it, but it’s just the way he is. You favour your left hand, Sam. It’s just like that. It’s the way he is.”

Legolas looked at Gimli in wonder. 

As they had walked, Legolas had been filtering every interaction with Gimli through the angle of the new, horrific possibility - that Gimli thought their night in Dale was a transaction. Or _had_ it been a transaction? Gimli had said nothing of the coin. And now, again this reaction. Legolas was a sapling among sturdier trees, which knew the ways of the winds and underground waters. The winds of this new chaos threatened to uproot him.

And Legolas did not know what he was seeing in Mithrandir’s eyes as he watched Gimli continue to speak. 

“Aye, Bofur’s the same. He can make you anything you ask, you had some of his toys, lads.” Gimli addressed the hobbits, and for a few minutes the conversation turned to tiny wooden dragons that could glide and flap their wings, and little horses with a mechanism within to make them move. Then Gimli continued. “But if you ask him to read anything, he says the words run around on the paper like little ferrets. I don’t understand it myself. But between them, he and his cousin get by. Bifur writes anything Bofur needs written and Bofur translates into Westron when he needs it. On account of the axe in his head.”

Legolas remembered that one of the Dwarves in the Company had had a serious injury but had refused a healer. _Could it be the same Dwarf? Surely not._ But Legolas did not like to bring up the captive Dwarves now, so remained silent.

Legolas noticed Boromir mouthing, “axe?” but his attention was on Gimli. Legolas had feared he had handed Gimli a perfect opportunity to mock and deride him, but he did not seem to think much of it at all. 

Gimli started walking again. 

“Come on, what are you all dawdling for? I want to get this done and be back in Erebor, not being rained on and eating meat with hardly any spices - no offence to your cooking Sam, I’m just used to more of a kick.” 

And with that, he began walking again. 

Mithrandir smiled to himself as he walked. 

The others looked back curiously, but continued to walk, and the conversation started again. Now the topic was ‘how many apples do you think you can eat without getting sick?’

Legolas had never expected Gimli to defend him, but he had passed it off as if it were no great matter. 

They stopped that evening and fell into the usual routines of setting up camp. 

Today, Legolas had asked what he could do to help. Estel had found some winter onions growing wild along the way, and after washing them, Sam had shyly approached and asked Legolas to chop them. Sam looked impressed at how quickly Legolas chopped the onions after a few failed initial attempts, and had laughed as the tears streamed from Legolas’ eyes. Sam seemed more relaxed and Legolas could see him stealing glances toward him.

Mithrandir had caught his eye and smiled and Legolas felt a pleasant warmth spread through his chest.

After they had eaten, and the hobbits had trained with Boromir and Estel, out of nowhere Frodo had piped up. 

“Gimli, may I ask you something about Dwarves and their hair?” 

Mithrandir exchanged a heavy look with him.

Gimli seemed to gather himself up before speaking. “Seeing as we are travelling together, perhaps I could answer. Depending on what it is. It’s not my place to be throwing about dwarrow secrets willy nilly.”

“Oh, if it is a secret of your people, then you needn’t say anything. I was just curious.”

“Spit it out, laddie.”

“Well, I remember Bofur, and I’ve seen the drawing of him in Bilbo’s red book.”

“Yes, and what of it?”

“His hair, it’s not like other Dwarves. It is in two pigtails, like a little girl’s? He does not have braids like other Dwarves.”

Gimli laughed. 

“Bofur’s not like other Dwarves.” He paused, thinking. “He does things his own way. He says who he is is more than his line or his craft. He has a hidden thread of mit- metal through his hair so the braids stick up at an angle.” Gimli smiled at Frodo. “I’ll tell him you said it was like a little girl’s next time I see him.”

“Please don’t,” Frodo laughed. 

Gimli grinned.

Emboldened, Pippin asked, “I’ve seen other drawings of Dwarves with strange hairstyles.”

“You mean Nori?”

All four hobbits nodded. 

“Ah, he has his reasons, but like Bofur, he goes his own way.”

“What about Ori?” 

Gimli looked at Mithrandir and took a deep breath before explaining. 

“Dwarves are very private. Our ways are not always easy to understand. I have been doing some thinking, and it is easy to misunderstand us because our ways are so hidden. We are in Fellowship together, so I would like to be open with you, but I ask that you keep what I share private.” His eyes darted towards Legolas, then down to the ground, as if deciding. 

“Ori had a fringe cut short. That’s what you mean by strange hair?”

All four hobbits nodded.

“You are right. It is unusual for Dwarves to cut our hair short. Ori has the fringe because no one knows who his sire is. And -” Gimli cut himself off. “In the old days, maybe not so much now, when a child was a bastard, a fringe marked him so.”

Legolas had to ask. “What is a bastard?”

Estel was quick with an answer. “It is another unkind word. It means a child of parents who were not wed.”

“But that is not possible.” 

Legolas was confused. So much outside the forest confused him.

Mithrandir supplied more of an explanation. 

“With Elves, all children are conceived of love, and of the intent of both parents. With other peoples it is not always so.”

Legolas was stunned, and was glad he was already seated. So any of the mortals he was looking at, perhaps their parents had not wanted them. He opened his mouth to ask and saw Mithrandir discretely shake his head.

Sam tentatively put up his hand. 

“Master Gimli, do some Dwarves go bald?”

Gimli laughed. “Mahal would never be so cruel!” Then he sobered. “I warrant you mean to ask about Dwalin?”

Sam nodded.

“I say again, these are not words for idle chatter, to be bandied about for silly gossip.”

Though he was looking at Merry and Pippin, all the group nodded.

“When he was young, Dwalin accidentally killed another Dwarf.” Gimli looked at his boots. “It was an accident. But Dwalin swore to shave the top of his head in penance, until he could meet the Dwarf again in Mahal’s halls and be forgiven. Only then will he let it grow again.”

They all sobered. Legolas wondered whether, once they entered Mahal’s halls, Dwarves were permitted to traverse the realms of the dead, perhaps to the halls of Mandos.

Pippin was not done asking questions. 

“What about beards? The other day you said all Dwarves had beards, but some in the drawings have short beards.”

Gimli and Mithrandir seemed to be having a conversation with their eyes. 

“Like I said, Bofur does as he pleases. He said a beard interfered with his toymaking, - got caught in the gears, so he cut it off.” Gimli looked like he was forcing himself to continue as he spoke. “It was similar for my cousin Kili. He was an archer. You can’t be an archer with a full beard.” Gimli’s eyes flicked to Legolas, and Legolas almost expressed his surprise and wanted to ask if this was the same Dwarven archer he had seen in the Battle of Five Armies, as he had not seen another. But he had never seen Gimli so open since Dale, and did not want to dam the stream of his conversation with an inopportune question. So he remained silent. 

“And Thorin?” Frodo whispered.

“Thorin.” Gimli swallowed. “Thorin declared that he was in mourning for the Khazad homeland and he would not grow a beard until he was on the throne in Erebor. His heirs copied him. For Kili, I think it was more to do with the archery, but Fili cut his beard because he wanted nothing more than to be like his uncle.” 

Gimli swallowed hard. 

Mithrandir changed the subject. 

“Well, you can all see, I have a fine beard and head of hair!”

The hobbits laughed. 

But Pippin turned again to Gimli. 

“Can I see what your beard feels like?”

Gimli stood up. He looked sick and angry at the same time.

Merry stepped forward.

“Sorry, Gimli. He is only curious, he only wanted to know if it is rough or soft. _”_

Gimli’s breathing slowed.

Mithrandir’s voice felt soothing as he said, “Gimli, he meant no offence. Such are the secrets of the Khazad that he had no way of knowing what that means. How will he know if you do not tell him?”

“Sorry - ,” Pippin whispered, looking confused and a bit scared. 

Mithrandir spoke. 

“You did not know. To touch a Dwarf’s beard is a very private thing.” 

Gimli coloured. 

“You did not know, you meant no harm. Just don’t speak of it again and be careful what you say.”

Legolas was startled by Gimli’s reaction. Clearly it meant much to him. But he had allowed Legolas to do so in Dale. Legolas sought Gimli’s eye but he would not meet it. He looked like he wanted to walk away as usual, but was forcing himself to stay.

Legolas heard Pippin begin to speak again. 

“Am I allowed to ask?”

Mithrandir’s warning look did not stop him, but Legolas was pulled from his thoughts by the question which was directed at him. 

“In the drawing, why does your pa have sticks in his hair?” 

For a moment, Legolas did not understand what he was saying, then he burst into laughter.

“Oh, the picture in Bilbo’s red book shows him in his winter crown.” Legolas gave pause to wonder at that, because the Company had visited in early Autumn. Gimli still looked agitated but Legolas did not know if that was still due to Pippin’s question or due to mention of the Elvenking,

They all looked blankly at him, apart from Mithrandir. _Of course, they would not know._

“My father was crowned on the battlefield with a wreath of leaves. My grandsire Oropher had been killed fighting - in the Dead Marshes. His crown was lost with him.” 

Legolas glanced over to see if Gimli was at the boiling anger stage yet due to talk of the Elvenking, but he did not seem to have been affected by the mention. 

“Even after he returned home, father decided he would not have a crown of precious metal. For other adornments he favours mithril and silver, but his crown reflects the seasons. Sometimes summer greenery, sometimes spring blossoms, sometimes autumn leaves."

At this his eyes brushed over Gimli’s hair and beard.

“The sticks you speak of would have been his Winter-crown. He wears twigs instead of evergreens, because he says there is beauty in everything, and in the twigs is the promise of new life at the turn of the seasons.”

Legolas imagined that right now father would probably be wearing a stark branch with red berries in startling contrast against his fair hair. The homesickness clenched at him like a cruel claw. Estel’s hand found his shoulder, and despite Gimli’s look, remained there until the wave of homesickness passed and Legolas felt more collected.

That evening, Legolas followed Estel, doing everything he asked, until Estel breathed in through his teeth and said, “Legolas, enough.”

The next morning, Estel tended to the cut on Pippin’s nose which had become yellow, and looked unhealthy. As Pippin winced, Legolas recalled Estel speaking of his training as a healer. In the Woodland Realm, those who healed could not take up arms. One could not take life, then hope to restore it. That was how it had been explained to Legolas. But he would not question mortal or Noldor ways.

After he had finished with Pippin, Estel seemed deep in thought, then spoke to them all. 

“Normally, this is only for sworn Rangers, but I am trusting you all not to abuse this knowledge.” 

He met each of their eyes. He explained some simple Ranger signals. Whistles with upward inflexion indicated a question, one could whistle a clear tone to inform. _Danger._ Two sharp tones, indicated _reinforcements needed_ . Another combination meant _stay hidden_ and another meant _find me._

Legolas demonstrated the signals they used in the Woodland Realm. They were more complicated and sounded like birdsong, more easily disguised than what Estel had demonstrated, but when he had finished they had all looked at him blankly.

“I’m not a bird, Legolas, yer highness,” Sam spluttered “I can’t do that.”

Gimli sat quietly with his arms folded after Estel had run through the signals. 

“That’s all very nice, but I can’t whistle.”

“What!” They were all talking over each other. 

“You just do this,” Legolas said gently, shaping his mouth and blowing softly. 

Gimli licked his lips then said, “Many have tried to teach me. I have tried to learn. But my mouth just, won’t do it.” He blew softly, copying the shape of Legolas’ lips. His pink lips let out a soft sibilance, but no real whistle. Then with two fingers in his mouth, again he tried, resulting in another soundless rush of air. “We can’t all be good at everything and there’s no shame in it.”

Suddenly, Legolas wondered. Was Gimli saying that to make Legolas feel less - strange? But there was no way to ask such a thing.

After so many revelations, the evening was quiet and the night watch passed uneventfully. But inside him, it felt as if a devastating storm had laid waste to everything in his path.

The next morning as they walked, it had come as a surprise to encounter wolves, and walking so boldly during the day.

No. They were larger than wolves. And there was intelligence behind those eyes.

Wargs.

Pippin began to run. 

“Daro!” _Stop, Stand still._ If he behaved as prey, the Warg would chase him. “Do not run.” Legolas commanded. “Bring the perian together.”

Legolas had committed to memory the styles of fighting of both of the Men. And in watching Gimli’s ‘forms’ he had a clear picture with which to anticipate his movements. Gimli pushed back his cloak and both hands were on his throwing axes, but he stood still as Legolas had bid.

Who even knew where Men went when they died? Or hobbits? And he could not stand the thought of Gimli no longer in his body. Laying on the ground like Gilron. He would not allow it.

The Wargs circled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The four paragraphs starting from the part with 'the deeply cloven track' draw heavily on the source text, in case you were wondering where you had read some of that before, and Lindir's words are canon... 
> 
> *Letterless head - I can't remember where I came across that one, but I'm sure it was a The Hobbit fic here on AO3.
> 
> Note - I used the Elvenking crown headcanon in my old story ‘Bearded;
> 
> Edit: Credit to BubblySpiral for a lovely chat about hobbit fauntlings receiving dwarven toys.
> 
> The next chapter might be delayed, but I'm still here! 
> 
> Please consider leaving a review if you would like, good, bad or indifferent. Everything is helpful. Thanks for reading!!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas for general amazingness. You have helped me make this a better story. Aylwyyn and de_la_cruz87; thanks for all the support and also for prodding me.

_Frolicking arse-badgers!_

_That fucking Wizard..._

In one night he had torn apart so many of the struts holding up Gimli's world.

The talk with Tharkûn had been a devastating avalanche. Everything foundational in his life had been pitched off a cliff, forcing him to consider how to rebuild everything anew. 

Tharkûn had pulled nothing from his mind. There was no magic to it. He had only pointed out where the fissures were, and the whole edifice had come down on its own.

For years, his memories of Thorin had been sacrosanct and immutable. 

Now this. 

In Gimli’s mind, the memory of Thorin had been preserved, set in crystal to remain forever unchanging, undisturbed. Perfect. When they had gathered as a family, and the Company had shared reminiscences, they had shared how brave he was, how devoted to his people. 

Not ‘ruthless’.

Aye, they talked of Thorin’s faults, of his hard-headedness, but the words were fondly spoken. 

In Ered Luin, Gimli had been furious to have been left behind. Both his parents had been united in forbidding him to join the Company. When Gimli had begged Thorin himself, Thorin had said he would have allowed it, but would not go against his parents. Gimli now wondered whether he would really have allowed a lad not yet of age to have joined them, on a quest in which death was a likely outcome. Had it been a sop to Gimli’s pride, or would he really have led one who had not yet reached full maturity into that danger? In all the months of waiting in Ered Luin, some had decried the venture as a fools’ errand, declaring all the Company to be ‘sand that looks like stone’. ‘Nothing of substance will come of it, save dishonoured bones,’ they had scoffed. Gimli had been the Company’s staunchest defender, and without Dwalin there to channel his anger into weapons practice, he had found himself with more than one split lip and black eye in the months of waiting.

But if his father had died, along with their closest kin, how would he and his mother have fared in Ered Luin? Would they have ended up the same way as Oin’s wife? Or clung to life, destitute and now with fewer remaining family members to provide a supporting structure? With hindsight, they had the knowledge of the Valar’s intervention and of success, but the decision to seek Erebor once again had indeed been reckless. No cost had been too high for Thorin to restore pride to his people.

As they had travelled from Erebor to Rivendell, they had observed Thorin’s Day on the road, shortly after Durin’s Day. Most heroes of the Khazad had a day in their honour. Most days had more than one hero to commemorate. It was a believable excuse to claim to be unavailable as ‘there was a hero of your Line whose feast day your family was celebrating’, so you would not be able to carry out whatever favour was needed that evening. In Erebor, Dís had arranged for Thorin’s favourite pastry to be distributed for free throughout the Mountain once a year on that day. That was the only day of the year she would allow herself to fall apart. She would lock herself away in her apartments and emerge in the evening for the formal feast, looking pale and washed out. Then the next day, and all the next days she would be her stoic self. On the road, as Gimli had eaten his cram he had thought of those pastries.

The Thorin they clanked tankards of mead to honour was different from the one the Wizard had spoken of. The portrait Tharkûn had painted was that of a - a monster. Like a worm on a fishing line, without compunction he would have hooked Glóin and cast him as bait if it would have served his purpose. Gimli knew this to be true. He had always thought the quest to reclaim Erebor had been noble, heroic and had sung the songs with gusto, but the way Tharkûn had painted - it was - demented. 

And that his father and Nori should be objects of the Wizard’s pity for their view of the world. They were paragons. Now Gimli had been told that was only a trick of the light. 

Glóin's outbursts of temper. They laughed it off, saying, ‘that’s just the way he is’, but at the same time, there was a real wound there. He had had a hard life. He blamed much of it on Thranduil’s failure to aid the refugees of Erebor. There were places in Erebor they were no longer permitted to visit, despite their wealth, due to Glóin’s outbursts. The proprietors would not put up with smashed furniture and overturned tables. Did Gimli want his own unreasonable anger to limit his opportunities? To lose the respect of those he admired?

When Boromir had risen for his watch, Gimli went to Boromir’s bedroll next to the hobbits, rather than return to the shelter where Legolas and Aragorn lay. 

Gimli turned on the bedroll, his heart still racing. 

And King Thráin. Alive and mouldering in a prison for decades; as Gimli’s own father would have been without Bilbo and the Elf’s intervention. And what had been the Wizard’s true role in his end? All these years Tharkûn had borne silently the suspicion against him, the whispers of disloyalty, of abandoning the Company, rather than abase the memory of their king. Or had it been regicide? Only Tharkûn knew the truth.

Gimli had lain next to the hobbits and had not found sleep that night, instead thinking over all the things Tharkûn had said. The Valar were taking a close interest in the Fellowship. Gimli had been aware of the likelihood but had shunted the knowledge back, the way one would dismiss a runty piglet, when choosing a battle hog. Gimli stacked three stones beside him. He did not know what the other Valar would want. Mahal would have to intervene on his behalf.

Gimli still lay awake as Boromir ended his watch, and entered Legolas and Aragorn’s shelter to sleep on Gimli’s unused bedding. Legolas and Aragorn then came out of the shelter and sat together in the rain, keeping watch. As Gimli looked across, he could see only brotherly affection between them - not what he had accused Aragorn of. Gimli turned over and tried to sleep.

Tharkûn’s phrase kept running through his mind; ‘Gimli, you are seeking to single-handedly make him dislike the Khazad with your pettiness and discourtesy'. Gimli did not have siblings but had grown up with the other dwarrowlings of Ered Luin. He looked at the tattoo on his forearm, put there by Fili before they were even old enough to be permitted entry into a tavern. They had sometimes teased and baited each other. The time they stained Kili’s eyebrows blue - he could acknowledge they had gone too far. But beneath those actions was a solid bedrock of affection, with bonds of family and longstanding attachment. With the Elf, every time Gimli spilled a drink, each ‘accidental’ shove, stepping on his toes - each was a hateful action, not softened by ties of kin, or the sure knowledge of friendship. 

And even if the Elf _were_ a malevolent force, such antagonism was _stupid._ Needling a dangerous foe without a plan would rarely produce a favourable outcome. And if it were as Tharkûn said, and the Valar favoured this Elf, and that he was key to a future for the Khazad - then Balin had taught him statecraft better than that. A bitter Thranduilion in Mirkwood, two days’ ride from Erebor was a chilling prospect.

Gimli turned onto his side, the armour digging into him. 

If the Valar had decided to bless one of Elvenkind with the companionship of one of the Khazad, Gimli would not be the one to spoil that experience, if it was not already too late.

In the morning, as they fetched water, Boromir had to nudge Gimli as he distractedly allowed the container to overflow. Aragorn had said this would be their last chance to refill for a while, as their course would now divert away from that of the stream. But Gimli’s thoughts were elsewhere. 

Returning to the camp, he saw the Elf, seated on the ground, leaning against the pony.

Gimli looked.

And it was as if a lamp had been turned on in a dark room. The Elf had on his face a silly smile as he played with something in his hand. He was completely oblivious to the goings on in the camp. When Sam pressed a hot drink into his hand, and set a plate of stew beside him, he only smiled absentmindedly and continued in his daydream as he drank. There was no plotting here. No schemes. It was as Tharkûn had said. He behaved exactly as a dumpling would. The Elf simply did not notice the work being done about him. He was not sulky, surly and avoidant as some were in their indulged ways; rather, he was simply oblivious. There were no sly looks, no smirks at his own cleverness in avoiding his duties. There was no spiteful glee in getting out of work. When Gimli looked, he could see that he had created those expressions in his own mind. The Elf’s face was - sweet. 

In many ways, Gimli was reminded of Bimur, Bombur’s youngest. His mother had asked Gimli to take him with him on a caravan, to get to see the world a little. Gimli had thought a two day journey to a trading outpost between Erebor and the Iron Hills would be the right shovel for the mine. It was a safe route, frequently travelled. There were many caravans with their own security, so Orcs rarely raided the route. Bimur’s mother had also asked that Gimli talk to him about choosing a craft, because he was at the age most were well into their apprenticeships, but Bimur had no plans. 

Bimur spoke about how he was planning on maybe going into growing hallucinogenic mushrooms, or maybe he would choose an instrument as his craft. There was no shame in the choices, except it was never a choice, only talk. He spent the journey daydreaming and talking about himself. Not listening to any of Gimli’s suggestions, saying Gimli would not understand as things had changed since he was young. They certainly had. At Bimur’s age Gimli was close to being a journeyman Warrior. He knew how to identify edible plants along the road, and had been able to dig a shelter and hunt and dress game. 

Bimur reminded him of Legolas. Not in the worst ways. Legolas was always listening, and did not speak much about himself and his home. Gimli could recognise in Legolas the focus of another Warrior, and as they travelled he did not sulk and complain. But there was the same complete lack of awareness of the necessity for _work._ It was not even malicious. Bimur was a dumpling, and that was his parents’ fault. Finally, having enough to eat, secure shelter, luxury - they had not had the heart to deny Bimur anything. And Gimli could see it was the same with Legolas. He just walked away from his unwashed dishes and his unfolded bedroll with the very real knowledge that when he looked at them again, they would have somehow resolved themselves. It was not malice. 

Why would Thranduil send a dumpling, alone to Dale. Gimli could have had his knife on the Elf’s throat, as easily as his mouth had been on that smooth neck. It _had_ been dangerous for the Elf. Aye, the majority of the patrons knew the rules, but some had been passing through, and some, like Gimli did not know that Elves were regular visitors, under the protection of the proprietor. 

And questions. Bofur had told him that stupid questions yeild clever answers. _Why do I need to use this type of wire? What would happen if I used that? Why does it need to be made of wood, what would happen if I used soapstone?_ Gimli had applied this to his training and was told he had an unpredictable problem-solving approach. Why then was Gimli’s thinking so rigid here?

The pounding of their feet as they walked created a rhythm for his thoughts. 

Why would Legolas have paid a pleasure worker so much? Had it truly been a transaction?

It had seemed that Legolas had not properly understood the coin he gave the serving wench, or not cared, allowing himself to be robbed. And if one had only a single night to spend with a pleasure worker, and one was able to pay the top prices, surely one would seek out the most exotic of experiences, the most skilled of workers. Not - what they had done, then a cuddle. The Elf was fair. He could have had almost anyone in Dale, and they would have been willing. If he was curious about Dwarves, there were many who for the right amount would have done anything. He could have chosen from a line up, one to suit his preferences. Not the one who had randomly approached him. 

And Gimli had forgotten Dori’s lessons in courtesy. He should not have spoken to Aragorn that way. It was not his business. Perhaps his was a political union with the daughter of Lord Elrond. Perhaps the Lord of Rivendell had wished to tie the Elves to the future of Men in that way. Perhaps Aragorn and Arwen had decided that provided they were discrete, they could find their pleasure where they would. Aragorn was a handsome man. Why should he not find comfort with the Elf? They were perhaps all headed to their deaths. Why not enjoy the pleasures of the flesh before being wrenched from Arda? Gimli should not have spoken thus. It was not his business. He had recognised that, but ignored common sense. 

And Gimli had forsaken his uncle Oin’s lessons. Not the basic lessons in healing, but the lifelong lessons in kindness. Gimli had been kind to the hobbits and to Boromir, but not to the Elf, Aragorn or Mithrandir. He had thought he was justified but he did not represent himself well. 

Gimli was quick to take offence, but maybe there were Elvish things he did not know. Maybe there were observances Gimli himself was offending against.

This Elf was so sweet. He was not like the Rivendell Elves, composed and collected, gliding and inscrutable. He laughed and wrestled on the ground with the hobbits like a tangle of puppies. Everything seemed delightful and new to him. He would often stare at something, then smile, and his smiles were infectious. But he did not smile at Gimli. Not anymore. 

There was a freshness about him. In Dale, because Gimli had not met any other Elves before, he had thought this was a characteristic common to all Elves, but in his weeks in Rivendell he had seen it was not so. Yes, the word was freshness. The people he had grown up with, lived and worked amongst were hard. To survive they had had to become so. There was cynicism now in even the most cheerful of personalities. Many Dwarves from the Iron Hills had settled in Erebor over the years. They had not experienced the travails of exile, only heard of them, but even in them was a core of awareness. Of the cruelty of Men and of Elves. That destruction could come at any time. But in the Elf, this cynicism was missing. 

By Mahal, if it was not too late, Gimli would not be the one to make him grow cold. The hobbits were young and unmarred by long hardship. There seemed to be a natural hardiness to them all. Even Pippin. But the quality in the Elf did not seem like simple youth. For all Tharkûn had said Legolas was older than Gimli, he did not seem so, but at the same time he did not seem younger. There was an agelessness to him. He had spoken of having known sorrow and it seemed to be true but it had not hardened him.

Gimli sat with the others and ate Sam’s stew, not joining in the conversation.

Gimli’s stomach rebelled against the food as he thought. It was as if Tharkûn’s words had allowed him to open his eyes. He knew it was prudent to be wary of those one had reason to suspect, but Gimli recognised now that his thoughts had become obsessive. His training was to _observe_. Not to confabulate. 

Could this be how Gold Sickness was manifesting in him, and not gambling as his mother had feared? As one of the line of Durin, Gold Sickness frightened Gimli. The events surrounding the Arkenstone had been downplayed afterwards, and few outside the Company knew the extent of the madness which had gripped Thorin. When Glóin had spoken of it, he had said it had crept up slowly until they could not recognise Thorin any more. Even in Ered Luin, Thorin had said the final requirement to secure his kingship would be to hold in his hand the Arkenstone, which all the Khazad knew demonstrated the legitimacy of the king’s rule. It was a reasonable thing to hope to find. But in his final days it was all he could think of. 

In the same way, Gimli’s own suspicion of the Elf was not unfounded, but the grip it had begun to have on him was beyond what was normal. Before speaking with Tharkûn, Gimli had not been open to listening to anything which countered his suspicions. Had the Elf been spying in Dale? From what he now knew, it seemed unlikely. 

Gold Sickness was not about gambling or gold. That was the form it often took, but Gimli knew now that it was about dogged fixation. Beyond reason and beyond persuasion. Once locked in it could turn murderous. Every thing was a clue, a hint about the object of the obsession. For Thorin it had been securing Erebor, then once that goal had been in sight it was comingled with the need to find the Arkenstone.

Gimli did not gamble and he did not covet gold. He had thought himself safe. But he had become obsessed by the thoughts surrounding that gold coin, and every word and sigh had become a portent of the Elf’s wickedness. But what if Gimli had not been thinking clearly? What if the Wizard had been right, and Legolas had been in Boar’s Head without ulterior motive?

Was the lingering attraction to the Elf a part of the sickness? No. Gimli knew himself. He was attracted to the Elf simply because he was beautiful. And because he looked delicious. But he could control his appetites.

Gimli feared the Elf wished to take the Ring, but they all here in the Fellowship had motive enough. Apart from the hobbits who had shown resistance, none of them were above suspicion. Perhaps he would not put it past Pippin to try to wield it if it promised an unending supply of pastries. Gimli smiled. He should not jest about such things. 

Gimli had had opportunities most others had not. He had been trained in diplomacy, yet as Tharkûn had said, so far his behaviour had been boorish and petulant. Like a dwarrowling.

Balin had explained that courtesy opens doors. And here he was doing the opposite.

Balin had also said assumptions in diplomatic negotiations were fatal. Ask the questions, even stupid ones. Make concessions where it would cost you nothing, for a bigger reward at the end. 

He would need to think over everything.

But the wound surrounding the coin had been opened anew by the gem. He could not yet face that. It was an unsteady cavern, ready to bury him alive at any misstep.

In those months, waiting for his father and the Company to send word that Erebor was regained, Gimli had sharpened his axe as he brooded.

His axe was almost as sharp now. 

He knew Tharkûn was a troublemaker. Some said never to listen to him. But the problem was that he was not wrong. As Gimli walked and tripped on the roots along this path, he could find no flaws in Tharkûn’s statements. 

Gimli kicked at the ground. 

There was something strange about the rocks here. As if they resented the passage of so many feet. Even when they stopped to eat, Gimli could not shake the feeling. He sang a few travelling songs he had learnt from an Easterling and the mood lightened as they all sang something in turn. But Gimli would not sing a song of the Khazad, not out here, in the open and among outsiders. As the Elf sang a slow and breathy melody which did not sound like anything he had heard in Rivendell, he thought about the secrets of the Khazad. Some were for protection, he would not cross those. 

But was it necessary to keep even the very _sound_ of Khuzdul from the ears of outsiders? The Fellowship - Gimli realised he might die among them. So, the end of his life and dying breaths were things he could share with them, but a recipe for Dwarf bread was beyond the limit? Of course such knowledge was not something he wished to have scattered abroad, but if he could not trust those he travelled with, he might as well fall upon his own dagger and save time. In his passion, Gimli had whispered Khuzdul to the Elf in Dale, but he had already been doing a number of things he strictly should _not_ , so one more was not going to set the forge ablaze. But to choose to deliberately share secrets of the Khazad - was that something he was willing to do? And with a Mirkwood Elf present?

As they resumed their walking, Gimli distracted himself with thoughts of what he would do when he returned to Erebor. He would have a bowl of his father’s lentil spiced stew. Glóin always added extra pulses, the way they had eaten it in Ered Luin. Then, after seeing his family he would visit the communal baths, followed by an evening in a tavern. Smoking and singing and drinking. Maybe ending the night with a friendly lay. 

He would be a Hero of Erebor in his own right if the Fellowship succeeded, not just the son of one.

Pippin shouted over, “he can’t read!”

Instantly, Gimli thought ‘ _what new plot is this? Trying to elicit sympathy.'_ Then he took a deep breath, took a step back from his initial thoughts, and observed. Gimli took in the scene. The Elf looked like an apprentice who had been berated by the journeyman overseeing his work and told, ’consider a different craft’. He looked genuinely distressed, embarrassed, but determined. The hobbits all looked shocked, as did Boromir, whose brother he had spoken of as ‘practically living in the library’ in Gondor. If this were anyone else, how would Gimli respond?

The Elf was wringing his hands in a self-soothing motion. The distress on his face - if he was acting, then after the quest was over, he could share his skill on the stages of Middle-earth. Gimli should ignore the conversation. It had nothing to do with him. So the Elf could not read. He had thought Elves skilled in all things, but apparently some of the gems had flaws.

No. Not a flaw. And not so cold as a gem. A fire opal rather, with an unexpected twist in its colours. 

And if Men and hobbits were not aware of Letterless Heads, it was not for him to talk of dwarrow afflictions.

Then the word came through. _‘Daft’._ Gimli recalled the cruel jibes Bofur sometimes faced, usually from those jealous of his craft, or from Men as he failed to read their instructions. Gimli _had_ to say something. Aye, it was true the mincing dances he had seen in Rivendell were silly, and the plates of food with artfully arranged flowers and gravy drawn in patterns were nonsense; Elves _were_ daft, but to suggest one was daft for a Letterless Head was unfair.

_Oh Mahal_

The look of gratitude and surprise in those eyes. Had Gimli truly been so uncharitable that a grain of kindness from him was so unexpected? Gimli walked away feeling both ashamed, and lighter somehow. 

He knew Bofur would not mind to have it known, but was surprised that Men and Hobbits did not know of Letterless Heads. Bifur did not parade his lack of Westron, remaining silent among outsiders, but even he would not begrudge the knowledge being shared with this particular group. When Tharkûn gave him a brisk nod Gimli tried to brush it off. Who was Tharkûn that his validation meant anything. But nevertheless the warmth spread in his chest at that sign of approval. 

Legolas had been looking over at Gimli all day. Gimli did not know what he meant by those looks, but he had enough to be thinking about without adding new mysteries. 

Gimli was still weighed down by all these thoughts, pushing and shoving their way to the front of his mind, even as he tried to keep his focus on putting one foot before the other and not tripping. 

That evening as they set up camp, everything was as it usually was, apart from Legolas. He was darting around, doing everything Estel directed him to do. When Sam asked him to chop onions Legolas had complied. His eyes had watered, Gimli had been curious as to whether they would in an Elf, but oh! Seeing that trail of tears on his cheeks had been a kick in the shins. Oh, but Gimli could not stand to see the shine of his eyes as the tears spilled, even as he and Sam laughed. Again, the guilt gripped him as he thought of the times the Elf had ‘threatened’ ‘false’ tears after Gimli had interacted with him. _Durin’s death,_ he never wanted to see tears on his face again if he could prevent it. It was a face for laughter.

When Gimli was faced with the first real challenge to his mandate of secrecy, in being asked by the Ringbearer to speak of the hair and beards of the Company and Dwarves in general, Tharkûn's steadying gaze had helped him to speak. An Elf should not be hearing those things, but every one of those of whom he spoke owed Legolas a Life Debt. 

Thinking about the Life Debt required a warm, quiet room - a pipe, perhaps - and a comfortable chair. There was too much taxing his thoughts for him to add this sword to the axes he was already juggling. 

When he had finished speaking of the Company’s hair and beards, Mahal had not struck Gimli down, and Durin had not jumped out from behind any rocks to berate him. 

Gimli was feeling pleased with himself, then Pippin suddenly asked to touch his beard. Was that perverse request a judgement for Gimli’s loose talk moments earlier?

Then Tharkûn’s words cut through.

"He meant no offence. Such are the secrets of the Khazad that he had no way of knowing what that means. How will he know if you do not tell him?”

And if Pippin did not know, how would the Elf have known?

Gimli doubted the Elvenking held public lectures about sensitivity towards Dwarves and the nuances of their culture. And if Legolas could not read for himself, and where would he read such a thing?-Gimli could hope only that someone had told him the meaning - and that was unlikely. 

So Gimli had thought Legolas was being lewd in the room of the Boar’s Head, when in fact it was curiosity. So perhaps he had not paid for intimacy, while not showing vulnerability himself. But Legolas had been so reverent, surely he had known what it meant to Gimli to touch his beard?

Looking at the facts, Legolas had asked for a kiss. It was Gimli who had then turned a hot kiss and hand in his beard into sex. 

And not knowing what a bastard was. _Narf!_ Had no one warned the Elf against women? Had no one spoken to him of this? If it had been true that ‘Elves don’t fuck’ it would have been unnecessary knowledge, but he clearly was not chaste. What else did he not know? Aragorn was his friend, and a healer. He should speak to him of these things.

Even as Legolas spoke of his father, Gimli found he did not automatically fall into Glóin’s stance of being furious. He listened to Legolas’ words. It was an Elven thing to do, sticks instead of gems, but it made its own kind of sense. 

But when Legolas’ lips were pressed together, trying to shore himself up, the homesickness was plain on his face. _Durin save us -_ his face was so open. This was not a slick schemer, manipulating all in his path. He was away from home for the first time, and truly, had likely not been further than Dale before Rivendell. Gimli had seen this look time and time again in the caravans he led. Sometimes he would offer a swig of liquor, but he did not have that here. Aragorn instead offered comfort. And once again, Gimli could see there was no heat behind that press to the shoulder - only friendship. 

As Aragorn shared his ranger signals, Gimli knew he himself was not yet ready to divulge Inglishmek, the signs and signals of which could be very useful; it was one thing to tell of the foibles of his family, some of whom were dead, and quite another to distribute a secret language of the Khazad. 

When Gimli said he could not whistle, Legolas’ voice cut through the chatter. “Like this,” he had tried to show Gimli. Gimli’s eyes would not leave those soft lips as he shaped them. 

Legolas had moved in close. They were breathing the same air. Gimli’s body became very aware of how close Legolas was, and that Legolas was looking at Gimli’s mouth so intently.

 _Mahal._ In Erebor, by now he would have kissed such lips, but this was not so simple. Even if his own feelings were not so tangled, Gimli did not know how Legolas himself would feel, after weeks of Gimli’s petty torments. And they had not yet spoken of the gem. Or of the coin. Perhaps it was indeed as Aragorn had said; a simple gift, unconnected to - favours. 

The rest of the day passed in a way that was now routine, apart from the fact that the Elf was now actively setting up camp with them. They set out in the morning again, the previous attempts to walk in the dark having not been entirely successful. 

When Gimli had spoken of Kili, thoughts he had left undisturbed for years had been stirred. Gimli had never known the details of what had transpired between Kili and his Elf. He had not wanted to pain Dís with probing. Only Fili would have known the full story and he too was gone. Was friendship with an Elf in and of itself treasonous? He had not thought so in Dale.

He had seen the questionable things Nori and Dain allowed to play out. Gimli saw the intrigues they engineered. He knew statecraft could be a dirty game. If indeed the Elf had been spying, Gimli could not object simply because he had fallen on the wrong side of it. When he had seen Nori go to spy, there was no malice towards the individuals. The Elf had not lied to Gimli in Dale; he must have assumed Gimli was aware of what was common knowledge. What went on in the Boars Head was known by all, and it was not the Elf’s fault that Gimli had been missing a key piece of general knowledge.

And could Gimli hold all the Elvenking’s faults against this laughing Elf? If Glóin's dishonour of the Life Debt was held as a stain on Gimli’s character, Gimli would rebel at the unfairness. Why not extend the same understanding towards Legolas? Legolas had undone the imprisonment. There was much to think about. His thoughts danced and would not line up to allow him a conclusion.

The coin hurt the most. As if Gimli could be bought. As if he was something to be purchased and discarded. It took something freely given and made it tawdry. That was the most egregious fault. But could Gimli have misunderstood? Perhaps wishful thinking was leading him to try and avoid the bitter truth. 

Too much coal had piled up in the cart for them to continue as if nothing had happened. Rumours and hurts and humiliations and mistreatment of the other, both real and imagined. In the years following the loss of Fili and Kili, the grief had become almost a comfort. As familiar as a friend carrying fond memories. In a similar way, the animosity against the Elf had become a familiar place.

As they walked, they kept away from even the smallest Mannish settlements, but they did pass a young shepherd boy with his small flock of goats, winter grazing. The boy stared mutely. He would not be believed when he told a tale of a Dwarf, an Elf, barefoot small Men and so forth having walked past him. With that thought Gimli had chuckled as he winked and tipped his helm towards the boy.

The next morning when Frodo woke, he said that a tree-root had made a hole in his back, and that the root seemed to follow him no matter how he lay, and his back and neck were now stiff. “All my beautiful feather beds have probably been taken by the Sackille-Bagginses by now! Those tree roots would do them good.”

Boromir said the hard ground would ‘make a Man of you’ then looked mortified when he realised what he had said, but they had all laughed. 

Pippin turned to Gimli. “Teach us how to swear at him in your secret language, so that he can not understand.” 

Gimli smiled, but shook his head.

“What about you, Aragorn. You know Elvish. And you said you can talk the language of the horse lords.”

Boromir looked startled.

“You have lived among the Rohirrim?”

“Yes, for several years. They called me Throngil, then.” He met Boromir’s eyes.

“You are not Throngil! He was a hero, he disappeared when my father was a young man!” 

Aragorn’s steady gaze held.

Legolas broke the tension with a mischievous laugh. “Pippin, Merry - I will tell you some words even Aragorn does not know!” 

They looked sceptical. 

“But first, I have a question. In Westron does the word ‘fuck’ have a meaning of its own, apart from being an exclamation?”

Gimli spat out his drink and Pippin was happy to supply, “It means bedroom relations!” This time it was Tharkûn’s glare rather than Frodo’s which cowed him.

Legolas looked at Merry and Pippin.

“The words I will teach you are words in my own tongue. We seldom use any tongue but our own outside the royal Court.”

Gimli had not realised there were differences between Elves. Aye, living near the Iron Hills were petty Dwarves who gave out true names and apart from height, were little different from Men, but Gimli had thought Elves to be all the same.

And Gimli had come to see that Legolas’ Westron was not arrogant. His pauses were not supercilious, they were halting. In fact, the lilt of his words had its own particular charm. 

Bifur, who could now speak only in Khuzdul could understand everything but he could not find the words. Sometimes this frustrated him. And he could see that in Mirkwood, the Elf would have little use for the Common Tongue. In the same way, he probably felt frustrated trying to find words. Gimli had never heard an accent like Legolas’ before, and though it was pleasant to Gimli’s ears, maybe it strained Legolas to speak Westron. All Dwarves learned Khuzdul as a second language, dwarrowlings not being trusted to keep it secret. Gimli remembered how exhausted he would feel after the intensive lessons. Perhaps when Legolas stopped speaking Westron it was a snub to Gimli, but perhaps it was also simply an expression of exhaustion.

Legolas continued, “we dwell in the heart of the forest and do not willingly have dealings with any other folk. Some of us still go abroad for the gathering of news or the watching of our enemies or trade with Dale.”

Gimli wondered if these enemies were Orcs and Wargs only or if that included Dwarves. But the atmosphere between Boromir and Aragorn was already tense, and he did not wish to add to it with such talk, or talk of Dale. 

Pippin was now impatient.

“So tell us then!”

"One is for you, and one is for Merry." Twice Legolas slowly said phrases in a language which sounded much darker, richer than that Gimli had heard in Rivendell. 

The hobbits repeated them, then Pippin asked, “are they _very_ rude?”

“Oh, yes.” Legolas laughed, “very rude indeed!”

Merry and Pippin walked away looking pleased and began to make ready for today’s walk.

At the expression of suppressed mirth on Tharkûn’s face, Boromir was pulled from his brooding and drawn to ask, “Legolas, what did you tell them?”

Legolas flashed another smile. Surely he had not had those tiny dimples before?

“To Pippin I taught ‘you are a good friend’, and to Merry ‘a friend is worth more than gold’.”

Legolas looked so pleased with himself that even Gimli could not help but laugh.

As they resumed walking, the road felt gentler and the wind not as harsh.

A hobbit began to run - Pippin.

“Daro!” 

He froze. 

***

Gimli’s heart sank as the Wargs came into view. So it would be here. So soon into the journey they would lose at least one hobbit. Or perhaps the Elf would take this chance to betray them.

Legolas’ daydream-like walk was replaced with an unmistakable warrior’s stance. His voice took on a ring of command and in moments, the hobbits were behind Gimli and Legolas on one side. Boromir and Aragorn stood on the second side of the triangle, swords at the ready, while Tharkûn and the pony sheltered them from the third. Tharkûn stood chanting, useless.

Gimli counted. Four. The foul creatures were taller than he, and snarled and slobbered. 

He readied his throwing axes as Legolas strung his bow, more quickly than Gimli had ever seen fingers move. Far more quickly than Legolas had ever fastened anything to the pony’s pack. 

Gimli would need to put aside all his hurt and humiliation, all his anger and suspicion. They would need to work together, otherwise it would mean death in the Fellowship, even their own.

_Mahal grant steady feet and skill._

The first Warg lunged towards Gimli, but his throw found its mark and mid-leap, his axe made contact with the beast’s forehead and it crumpled, dead.

The Elf fired his bow behind them, towards the Wargs flanking Boromir and Aragorn.

Gimli threw again, but this time the axe glanced away from the creature’s shoulder. Gimli was beginning to fear that it might overrun him. 

As it bounded towards him, Legolas stepped in front of Gimli and drew up his long mithril knife impaling its eye. 

The Warg’s momentum continued after the fatal blow and the creature was on top of Legolas. 

Gimli rolled the carcass off Legolas, and briefly clasped Legolas’ hand to help him rise. 

The thrill of battle was high in Gimli’s blood and he could still feel his heart racing, his pulse drumming and the air coming to him as through a great bellows. All four Wargs were dead.

Tharkûn ran his hands over Legolas’ face. 

It had been so fast, but there was no mistaking that Legolas had taken a swipe of a claw meant for Gimli. “I am well.” Legolas smiled at Gimli. “The only hurt I took was its foul breath.”

And though Gimli knew Legolas did not delight in killing, the joy of battle, which all warriors knew, was clearly upon him.

Then a second wave of Wargs emerged from the treeline. Gimli rooted himself to the earth to fight; a part of him reaching for the bedrock to make a stand. But Legolas was like water. From the corner of his eye, Gimli’s could see that Legolas’ movements were seamless and looked effortless. An elegant, fearsome dance, with no motion wasted. At one point Gimli ducked, and he knew the Elf would be behind him, ready to kill the oncoming Warg. 

Gimli’s mind was in that cold, clear place it only drew close to in battle. That focus allowing him to make life-and-death calculations, again and again. It cleared his mind as the Elf fought beside him. This Elf clearly did not see their lives as valueless. He fought with a blazing fury Gimli had not expected to see. Previously, he had seen him only with his bow, shooting things like apples, in a calm and dispassionate manner. But now, teeth bared, a furious light in his eyes, Gimli was glad Legolas was fighting on the same side. 

Tharkûn’s staff then blazed into fire and light, rendering the remaining Wargs incapacitated. Gimli, Legolas, Boromir and Aragorn did not hesitate to take advantage of their stunned state and dispatched the beasts with killing blows.

They returned to their formation and waited to see if there would be another wave, but they were safe for now.

Boromir and Aragorn together piled the carcasses. If more Wargs were coming, tripping over these bodies could result in a fatal mistake.

Legolas’ cloak had been ripped by a claw but he said there was no injury to his person. Gimli took his water to wash the red blood from Legolas’ hand, and as he did so checked there was indeed no injury. Legolas wiped his hands on his cloak, then stood to walk towards the hobbits.

Turning towards them, Gimli saw Tharkûn calming the pony, whose eyes were rolling and whites showing. Pippin was crying and shaking. Merry was not much better off. He was trembling and trying unsuccessfully to hold back his tears. Sam brushed his hands over Frodo’s arms as if to make sure he was unharmed. Legolas knelt and put his hand on Pippin’s shoulder, joining the clump of those attempting to comfort him. 

“Why, Pippin, let me tell you, the first time I came across a Mirkwood Spider close to my home, I was with my father and brothers. It was the size of a dog. I was just an elfling, not much younger than you are now. I wet myself in fear. My brothers pierced it through with so many arrows that it looked like an oversized hedgehog.”

At this Pippin gave a wet-sounding laugh and sniffed wetly, and Sam offered him a handkerchief. 

Legolas said, “You stood bravely, you did not drop your weapon. You did not shame yourself. To feel fear is natural, but know that we are all here to protect you. Remember that.”

Pippin nodded.

“You have been very brave, and think what fun you’ll have when you tell the story of how you stared down the Wargs.” 

At that Pippins chest puffed out, he threw his shoulders back and gave a determined nod.

Boromir cleaned his sword and also gave Pippin an encouraging ruffle in his hair. Among men it was a friendly gesture, not an insult. Gimli had to remember that.

Legolas whistled for a bird. It landed on his outstretched arm, and it was persuaded to hop over to Pippin’s hand which was no longer trembling. Legolas continued talking. “Being the youngest can be hard, but I know you are not a baby. I am proud of you.” Legolas whistled again and the bird turned, lifted its tail, and flew away leaving a wet splash on Merry’s arm. 

Even Gimli joined in the laughter as he wiped his axe.

Sam turned with an angry look at Tharkûn who was still calming the pony. Sam’s hand was gripping Frodo’s wrist.

“And why did you do nothing till the end, Master Gandalf?”

“Ah, the Valar have limited what aid I am permitted to give.”

 _Mahal's tits,_ what did that mean? But Gimli did not want an argument now. The exaltation of battle had left him now and he felt wrung out. In Erebor, when the Elders wished to commune with Mahal, there would be much pounding of anvils and burning of minerals which produced coloured lights. How was the Wizard getting his instructions from the Valar? Gimli had seen him do nothing of the kind these two weeks on the road and was dubious at the excuse, but he did not want to argue. Tharkûn's eventual actions had been invaluable, and he was here not elsewhere as the Company had complained. Even though Gimli now knew the Wizard’s reasons, it was not easy to shake the knowledge he had grown up with that Tharkûn was not trustworthy.

Gimli went to retrieve arrows. The two carcases next to where Aragorn and Boromir had stood each had an arrow to the eye. He passed the arrows to Legolas who discarded them saying he did not know what foul poison the Wargs’ blood might carry, and he would rather make more. He had brought with him a large number of arrowheads and feathers and would fletch more arrows as he sat keeping watch.

They had been prepared to dispose of the corpses, but the Wargs vanished with a foul smell, showing themselves to be the work of Saruman according to Tharkûn. Gimli felt the warmth of a true shield-brother towards all who had fought beside him this day. A voice calling itself ‘common sense’ crept into his thinking. _‘It was in the Elf’s own interests to keep them alive until it became convenient to steal the ring.’_

But Gimli shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. Gimli had seen the Elf leap into trees, and those long legs could have him at dizzying heights in moments. He had even leapt from branch to branch in Rivendell. If Legolas had wanted to take the ring, what better opportunity than now? And Legolas had said he was a Wood Elf; where better to make an attempt to take the Ring than here, among the trees while all were distracted? The Ringbearer would have been unable to withstand the Elf’s strength. But Legolas had not. He had fought beside them, as a member of the Fellowship.

They walked a fair distance then set down for the evening. 

“Elf, give me your cloak.” Gimli said.

Tharkûn frowned, Aragorn stopped his tasks and the others simply stared. Legolas’ mouth was forming a question.

“Less, dawdling, lad. I want to get it fixed and then get on with something else.”

Wordlessly, Legolas handed Gimli the cloak, and he sat with needle and thread repairing the tear with as delicate stitches as he could manage.

“Aye, stare if you will. ‘Tis likely none of ye have ever seen true craftsmanship.”

With that they resumed their duties, with Pippin watching over Gimli’s shoulder and Legolas gathering kindling with Aragorn.

It took only a few moments, but when Gimli returned the cloak, Legolas pressed his palm to his own chest in a gesture of thanks Gimli had seen him use with the others. Their eyes met, and the terrifying intimacy of it forced Gimli to look away. When he returned to his task with Aragorn, Gimli felt a tiny ache of loss.

It was not easy to find an opportunity for private discussion. Travelling in a group, every moment was spent as close together as pieces of armour in a case. Everything one said could be overheard. That had allowed him to learn more about the members of the Fellowship than he would have under normal circumstances, but the grating lack of privacy was a drawback when one wished to have a sensitive conversation.

Daily now, Legolas would leave the camp with Aragorn, returning with fresh braids, and otherwise the Elf’s time was spent with the hobbits, Aragorn and Boromir - rarely alone. And though Gimli had stopped goading the Elf, if he were to ask to speak with Legolas alone, or sit up to watch with him, the others would take it amiss. In fact, Gimli did not know if Aragorn would permit it. 

And even if he did, Gimli did not know if he would be able to speak of the things he wished to. There needed to be an apology. He allowed the thought to settle. Gimli would need to apologise. 

It was to Gimli’s shame that after weeks of having the knowledge, he had still not addressed the Life Debt. But though these thoughts plagued him, the worry felt different from the constricting grasp of paranoid suspicion.

As he now walked with the Ringbearer, Frodo said, “Something feels lighter about you, Gimli.”

Gimli did not know what to say to that. He had decided at the beginning of the journey that he would keep his distance from the hobbits, but somehow Frodo had found a way into his heart. They had not spoken much, but his quiet, serious ways were endearing in a different way from Merry and Pippin’s boisterousness, or Sam’s shy earnestness.

He _did_ feel lighter, and he resolved to speak with the Elf before the pall of suspicion overcame him once more.

That night, as Legolas sat watch, Gimli joined him. They had sat in strained silence for a long minute. 

He would start with the easiest thing. Then Gimli hesitated. What if he did not like the Elf’s answers? What if his suspicions were confirmed? What would he do then? Balin’s voice came to him. _‘Gather the information you need, then you can make decisions based on that, rather than uselessly fretting and achieving nothing.’_

Gimli closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. “Did you know what it meant to touch the beard of a Dwarf?”

Legolas did not seem surprised at the question, and he shook his head ‘no’. 

Gimli’s voice was a low whisper. The camp was silent. He dared to ask. “So you did not intend to shame me, by speaking of my beard in public - in Rivendell?” Gimli gripped the rock behind him, and felt the heat rising in his face as he spoke. 

“Never that.” Legolas’ face was sombre. 

They sat in silence for a few more moments. A soft smile then played on Legolas’ lips.

“As with my hair, I now know that is a touch only for family or - or for lovers.” Legolas looked down at the ground as he spoke. “I knew it not, in Dale.”

Gimli was not ready.

He had opened the door to that conversation, but now that it was happening he felt panic and moved to redirect it. He still did not know how that matter stood. But Gimli still needed to make an apology for his own behaviour these past few weeks. In fact he owed several apologies, so he would begin, and say the words now. “I am sorry for accusing you of going off with Aragorn. To, you know-”

And Gimli was genuinely sorry for his outburst. A lover was not a thing to be gripped tight in the claws of jealousy, bonds of duty, or stale history. Affection was a thing which could not be chained, and it was wrong of him to wish it so.

“I am not the only one you should be apologising to,” Legolas said, looking over at Aragorn on his bedroll, asleep.

“Yes, well.” Gimli did not feel inclined to grovel before the Man quite yet. Gimli wished he could light his pipe, but he did not wish to accidentally blow smoke in the Elf’s face so he played with it nervously for a moment, then put it back in his pocket. 

Gimli wanted to understand, so asked, “In your forest is it a very private thing?”

The Elf’s face was still flushed, but he spoke in a matching whisper with a clear, steady voice.

“No, we comb together, in groups.”

“So it is because we are not Elves that you can not do so before us?”

Legolas’ expression was fixed, and he looked ahead into the treeline, not meeting Gimli’s gaze.

“No. Just that - we are not all of us friends.”

That feeling rose up again in Gimli.

“So Aragorn is friend enough to comb with?”

“No! We do not comb together - he does not look!” 

Legolas hesitated. Gimli now recognised this to be him finding the Westron words.

“When it is combing in a group - that means - it is for friends. But alone, as two combing each other. It means close friends, or family. It is for lovers.” Legolas’ face did not look blotchy as his flush deepened. It looked charming.

This fragile peace they had now was hard won. Gimli did not wish to disrupt it. Maybe he should stop now and return to where the others were sleeping and leave Legolas to his watch. What had happened in Dale was not to be spoken of. A part of him knew it to be an improperly stored, volatile explosive and could be dangerous to interfere with. But it was also a wound which needed to be lanced for healing.

Gimli set his mind as if for battle. He bent down, and from the pouch in his boot, Gimli took out the gold coin and laid it flat on his own palm. 

Legolas gave him a look of bafflement, then smiled with delight even as Gimli glared. Gimli tried to think clearly, but could not. All at once the feelings of hurt and suspicion and anger returned. Was Legolas amused by the degradation he had caused? Gimli did not wish to revisit his humiliation and debasement, but perhaps they would be dead soon. The Elf would go to his halls. Gimli would feast with his forbearers. This might be the last chance to speak of this and thus purge it from his soul. Gimli needed to persevere and continue the conversation, but the Elf spoke before he had a chance. 

“You kept it!” Legolas whispered, a smile on his lips.

Gimli frowned at Legolas’ words. Did it mean so little to the Elf? The hurt twisted in him again.

Then anger took the place of the hurt.

“You used me,” Gimli growled, punctuating his words by hitting the ground with his axe.

Now it was Legolas’ turn to frown. Again, he seemed to be gathering his words. “I thought you were willing.” Even his ear tips were flushed.

Gimli bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Is all well here?"

Gimli started. _Shit. Tharkûn._ The Wizard moved like a ghost.

In an instant, the coin was in Gimli’s pocket, and Gimli was back in his bedroll before he even heard Legolas' reply.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n - some of the combing talk draws on ideas from telemachus’ Rising verse. e.g. combing in a group for friendship, combing as a pair in private = lovers.
> 
> The lines about the tree root and mattresses are canon.
> 
> To be clear, this story has a hold on me, and I intend to see it all the way through, even it is just for me and that bird on the windowsill who watches me write! And I'd like to thank all the (attractive and wonderful!) people who have supported and encouraged me with their feedback and lovely words.
> 
> I wanted to say, in general, fic writers do what they do for the love of it, not for praise. Unlike book writers, there is no pay or public recognition. BUT I've been on fic writing forums where a lot of writers talk about giving up a story due to lack of engagement and not knowing if anyone is actually interested in reading it. Someone might have left a kudos in ch1, now the writer does not know if anyone is still reading or if they are writing into the void. Or only their cousin, roommate, and friend are reading and commenting, to be polite. 
> 
> I used to not leave feedback on stories, worrying that - someone else had already said the same thing; or I don't have much to say; or I don't have a clever comment talking about things from English Literature classes 'juxtaposition' and whatnot.  
> From what I hear, most writers are happy with even a <3 just to know someone is out there reading. I understand anxiety might limit a person's ability to interact, and I don't mean to at all to bash anyone if they feel unable to. All I want to say is it gets most writers tap dancing up the wall if you leave a comment! and it encourages them to write more of what you enjoy, especially if you let them know which things you liked. *putting away the soapbox*


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassunjey and de_la_cruz87 get a medal of awesomeness for beta services. Thank you.
> 
> I have been looking forward to posting this chapter! I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Oh, and happy Thanksgiving weekend to those who celebrate it.

Legolas had never been so frightened. 

His skin felt clammy and a cold sheen of sweat was upon his brow. The foul stench of the beasts carried across to him on the wind.

But it was not the Wargs he feared. Legolas was used to Wargs. 

And Legolas knew he could rely on his bow.

The bow was the first weapon all born in the Woodland Realm learned, both Silvan and Sindar. Ranged weapons were a logical choice given their environment, and all had a degree of fluency in that skill. An elfling was given their first bow as a gift, then when of age, one was expected to make a bow suited to one’s own style of archery. Legolas could admit he had had much help with that, and though he had selected the wood, thanking the tree for the sacrifice of a branch, he himself had not hewn the timber. The basic form of the bow was prepared for him and he had added only the finishing touches, leaving a retainer to polish it, ready for use. He had given his own hair for the bowstring, however spinners had prepared it for him, and in his pack were several spare bowstrings, ready for use. The spare shafts and arrowheads he would need had also been prepared for him. He trusted his bow.

He was frightened, but it was not for himself he feared.

Legolas knew that unless he was seriously outnumbered, he would not be harmed. Due to the young age at which he had begun to fight, Legolas had a level of skill matched by few in the Woodland Realm. When on patrol he could trust those he travelled with to hold their own in any skirmish. Casualties were the result of bad luck or carelessness and were rare. 

Legolas was afraid for those with him now. He felt the prickle of sweat down his back. 

The fear grew round him like a vine, and unless he cut it back he would be overcome and useless. In the Fellowship, perhaps only Gimli stood a real chance of holding his ground. 

_Perhaps if Frodo wielded the Ring, just for this, just once, all could escape unharmed_. 

No.

It would be exchanging a lesser evil for one greater.

But how could the deaths of these joyful hobbits, full of life, ever be seen as a ‘lesser evil’?

In moments, those better able to defend themselves shielded the hobbits. 

The pony tossed his mane. _Poor Bill._ Legolas tried to send a calming note of the Song to the pony. If Bill began to kick back in alarm, the hobbits could just as easily be killed by a hoof as a fang. 

In the Battle of Five Armies, Legolas had seen horses bucking in terror at the presence of Orcs. Perhaps the inherent corruption of the creatures was clear to horses and similar beasts, as they would consent to bear neither Orcs nor Goblins. Thus, Wargs were the mount of choice for Orcs and Legolas occasionally encountered them in his patrols. 

Assessing, Legolas saw that in this moment, the Men were the most vulnerable. There was nothing between them and the Wargs, and their greatswords would require them to be close for a kill. Close to claws and fangs. They did not have the speed or agility to remove themselves from harm’s way. 

Legolas fired two arrows in quick succession.

He turned, not checking to see if they had hit their marks. He knew they would have. Many lonely hours in the Woodland Realm had been spent on the archery range. As much as he was loved, he often felt a disconnect from those to whom the world was not something new, no longer an adventure, but a series of cycles which repeated over and over. 

Gimli’s axe found its mark once, but as he threw again, the remaining Warg changed its trajectory mid-leap. The small throwing axe glanced off its flank, and it was headed for Gimli, claws first. 

Legolas threw down his bow and in the same motion drew his knife and plunged it into the animal with a cry, of both relief at the elimination of the threat and of anguish at the violence. 

All four Wargs were dead.

The solicitous look in Mithrandir’s eye reminded Legolas of father. Gimli’s gentle hand helped him up. The look on his face was also so worried that Legolas spoke lightly in order to show that he was not harmed, though he was not unmoved by what had happened. 

The next wave of Wargs saw him falling into a rhythm with Gimli, killing them before they could reach the side of the formation where Boromir and Estel stood. 

As Gimli shifted a foot, Legolas could anticipate the next movement, based on his forms, and together they faced the threat, the angle of Gimli’s axe telling Legolas what to expect next. 

Mithrandir’s staff blazed, and the clear pulse of _life_ and _goodness_ reverberated through Legolas, even as he ran to plunge his knife into the base of the Warg’s spine. The blood was red, but thick like sap, flowing slowly, and when the foul creatures disappeared it was clear there was nothing natural about them.

That evening had been a sombre one, with each of them reflecting on how close they had come to death. Before leaving home, Legolas had never really been curious about where Men and hobbits’ spirits would rest until the Singing of the world anew, where everything would be remade. He was not even certain Men and hobbits would return to Arda Remade. After the Battle of Five Armies, the broken bodies outside Erebor had wrenched his heart, but he had tried not to think on it. He had not wished to ponder the philosophy around their deaths, only to forget, as much as an Elf could do such a thing. He wanted to know now, but knew the question would be taken amiss. 

When Gimli asked for Legolas’ cloak, he hesitated, fearing a cruel trick, but his cloak was mended with stitches so fine that the rent in the cloth was barely visible. Gimli met his eye for an immeasurable moment, then retreated back into busyness.

The next morning, Frodo especially had seemed heavy laden. Merry and Pippin redoubled their efforts at aggressive cheerfulness.

“Sam, oh!” Pippin’s twitching mouth belied his sombre expression. “I have an important message for you.”

With a put-upon look, Sam left his task to walk over to Pippin. 

“Bring your ear closer! It is private!”

Sam had leant down, only to be met with a long, loud and reverberating belch. 

Merry and Pippin had struggled to breathe for laughter. 

“His face!”

They rolled around on the ground, clasping each other, until only tiny cries of mirth remained, starting up again when they looked at each other. 

Legolas saw Frodo’s smile, the first since the Wargs, and Sam did not berate them. 

Merry and Pippin seemed endlessly amused by their own bodily functions. Once, Pippin had run from one side of the clearing, to the other, where Merry was laying out their bedrolls. Pippin had bent over in Merry’s direction and broken wind loudly, lifting one leg, then with a look of concentration he seemed to pump out a rudimentary tune. 

“Peregrin Took!” Mithrandir had hissed. “If you can not behave in a civilised manner, I will tie you to a tree and leave you here for any passing troll to eat if it grows peckish.”

Pippin did not look the least bit remorseful, but relented and for several days held in check the worst of such japes. 

The Fellowship had been surprised by Legolas’ confession of being unable to read, but it had not been mentioned again, for which he was grateful. Gimli said he was not daft - beyond a ‘general elven daftness’, for which Legolas supposed he was also grateful, but Legolas still felt like the most inept member of the group.

Legolas always walked in the rear of the group, as he had been instructed, often with Bill. Sometimes Sam joined them and he learnt of life in the Shire, of his sisters and his ‘Gaffer’. Legolas had never met anyone like him and was charmed by his earnest, straightforward _goodness_. 

Elven stories and songs seemed to cheer Frodo, so Legolas recited all his favourites and taught Frodo the melodies and harmonies. Days ago, when he had sung to them in Silvan, it had stirred such pangs of longing for home in him that he decided not to do so again, and he kept to Sindar tales and songs.

He did not speak Silvan to Mithrandir though he knew he could speak at least a little, and Mithrandir himself had not attempted to speak with him in Silvan. To speak so hinted at an intimacy they did not share. Legolas had never seen Mithrandir’s staff glow like that before, but Legolas had been too intent on the battle to pay attention at the time. Legolas knew he was in the presence of a powerful being and was little inclined to lower his guard. 

His tongue ached for the sounds of home but he decided to stick with Westron and Sindarin.

He now made sure to speak Westron whenever he could. Gimli was different somehow. He had stopped the little ‘accidents’ that always happened when Legolas was nearby. Legolas had nearly lost his temper when Gimli trod on Legolas’ leg in his sleeping roll, as Gimli had risen for his watch. But that had been the last of such incidents. Legolas noticed he was no longer bracing himself for the next petty offence. 

Since Gimli had rejected the gem, he had not become worse, as Legolas had feared, but rather - distant. A tentative vine had reached out between them when Gimli had defended his ‘Letterless Head’, and when Legolas tried to show him how to whistle. When they fought side-by-side a new thing had sprouted up, and the mending of his cloak was a new bud on the shoot. But Legolas dared not disturb it with probing. Legolas was speaking Westron again; Gimli had stopped kicking dust in his direction; Legoas had not recently heard any jibes about the daftness of Elves. He was content to continue thus.

When setting up camp, Legolas split his time between Boromir and Estel. They had so much in common, if only they would speak he was sure they would like each other. Yet Legolas had been court trained and understood the politics of their positions. If Boromir were to admit that Estel was who he said he was, Boromir’s own role in Gondor would be made redundant. Father had always said, _‘One thing which is close to impossible is getting someone to believe a controversial truth which they feel is not in their best interest’_. So they simply avoided each other as much as such a thing was possible in this enforced closeness, and were not rude to each other as Gimli was to Legolas. Or rather had been.

When Gimli had spoken of Dwarven hair and beards, Legolas had not realised there was so much meaning behind it all. Legolas felt a frisson taking him back to that room in the tavern, with his hands in that beard and the dark murmurs of a strange language in his ears as he found release.

Gimli approached him one evening, as Legolas kept watch.

His face had looked so serious.

Gimli had been tense around him all day, and it seemed that the brewing tension had now come to the surface. 

Perhaps now Gimli was going to speak about his being Thranduil’s son, a topic they had so far avoided. Well, Legolas was not going to stop him. If Gimli tried to hurt him, he would only defend himself and try to limit injury to Gimli as far as he could. 

Legolas had seen his father in a rage of cold, controlled fury. He knew instinctively that with Gimli it would not be so. It would be a loud, fiery anger. Well, as loud as one could be without endangering the group.

Then from his boot, Gimli drew forth the coin. Legolas felt delighted. _Oh! He had liked it! He had kept it with him! What did it mean that he had travelled so far with the coin?_

“So you think it’s funny, Elf.”

“Nay, Gimli. I smile only because I was glad you kept my gift and that you had brought it with you! You kept it!”

At this Gimli grew very still. Legolas had seen that same look when they were fighting the Wargs. Legolas did not like it. 

Legolas would rather have been charged by an angry animal. He would have been able to soothe the creature or fight it.

This was not good.

Legolas remained still, even as Gimli thumped his axe into the ground.

 _“_ You. Used. Me”

Legolas had often been face-to-face with such restrained anger in this Dwarf, but at least he was now explaining his anger.

And Gimli was still talking and not hitting.

Gimli growled.

Legolas had taken too long to answer, too busy looking at the red high on the dwarf’s cheeks, reminding him of a time he had seen that blush extend downwards to his chest. 

Beneath the beard, Legolas could see Gimli’s jaw clenching. The anger was practically swirling around him. But beneath it there was a hurt. Gimli’s eyes were liquid. Legolas watched as Gimli pulled himself together once again.

Legolas had been scared to speak of Dale, given that the links towards camaraderie they had made in the last few days were still fragile. But they had hardly begun to speak, when Mithrandir had interrupted, causing Gimli to retreat. 

_“What’s that supposed to mean?”_ Gimli had said, but Legolas did not have the opportunity to reply.

As he saw Mithrandir approach, Legolas’ first thought was whether Gimli’s axe would be a match for Mithrandir’s staff, but Gimli had departed wordlessly. 

Despite the inauspicious turn of the discussion, Legolas’ thoughts had been filled with heat and musk, but with long practice, he tamped that down. 

In full armour, Gimli moved with terrifying purposefulness. The starlight caught the burnished bronze and the reflected points of light caught in Gimli’s hair. Legolas’ mouth dried and he wondered how his people could call Dwarves stunted and unlovely. Gimli was solid, sturdy, and everything he should be.

Gimli’s sudden flare of anger had left Legolas confused again, but he did not leave his watch to seek him out. As Gimli departed, Mithranidir took a seat beside Legolas, and showed no sign of leaving. 

Legolas was frustrated with this turn, as it had initially seemed that he and Gimli were on the path to starting afresh. No, not starting afresh. To start afresh would be to cut down a section of forest that was hopelessly under Shadow, thick with disease. And hope that in the clearing, something healthier could take root. No, Legolas did not want a ‘fresh start’. He wanted to prune away the misunderstanding. Remove the rot of conflict and remain with whatever connection was between them. He wanted to take what they had and to heal it.

After several long minutes, Mithrandir asked the question again. “Is all well?”

When Legolas replied that he and Gimli had just been talking, Mithrandir said that he was sorry to have interrupted, and seemed genuinely regretful.

“And are _you_ well, Legolas?”

“Yes, I told you, I took no hurt from the Warg.”

“I did not mean that.”

And they sat for silent, still minutes.

Finally, Legolas asked. “How do you do it, Mithrandir?”

When the silence extended onwards he expanded. “How do you befriend mortals?”

“You mean, because their time here is limited?”

Legolas nodded.

“If another Elf is killed, I know I will still see them again. But with mortals -” Legolas swallowed. He did not want to have to enumerate all the things that could happen to them, and their inevitable ends, but it seemed that Mithrandir had taken his point. Legolas thought he was not going to answer, but then he spoke.

“Do you ignore the summer flowers, because they are there only for a season?” Mithrandir’s eyes looked at a distant point in the darkness. “Do you turn away from a sunset, because it is fleeting, ever changing, then gone?”

Legolas took the words and held them and turned them over.

“But - Mithrandir, it seems that to do that is to invite hurt into one’s life.”

“Yes, it hurts,” Mithrandir replied, and did not soften the answer. 

For an hour they sat together in silence. Then Mithrandir reached into the pocket of his robes, pulling out a perfect, tiny red feather from a robin redbreast. Well, not red. Orangy red. More auburn. 

”For you.”

Legolas admired it for a few moments, feeling how it felt against his hand, against his cheek.

Mithrandir spoke again. “To be the only one of your kind, among others who are different, can be difficult. One can cut oneself off. One escapes that particular pain of mortal loss, but by doing so one invites in another type of pain, a type not laced with joy.”

Legolas had never considered that the Wizard might be lonely. He had not thought much about how he might feel about things. Legolas had just imagined he was busy with - Wizardly things. Looking over at him, he looked like a tired old Man, but Legolas could feel the strength of the Song as he sat next to him. 

The black of the sky took on a touch of grey.

Something in the Wizard’s posture caused Legolas to turn towards him. He had taken off his hat and was playing with the brim and his ears were red. Mithrandir shifted awkwardly.

Legolas heard him mutter to himself. “I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

“We may not readily have another chance to speak privately, and there was something I had been meaning to discuss with you.” Mithrandir cleared his throat. “I had not realised your - difficulty with reading had persisted. I am sorry I did not offer you further assistance.”

Legolas shrugged.

Mithrandir coughed. 

Legolas did not think that was all he wished to speak of. And Mithrandir had already praised him several times for his work in the camp.

Mithrandir cleared his throat.

“Legolas, the other day it took me by surprise that you did not know what a bastard was. I would not have expected you to know the Westron word, but that the concept was unknown-” 

Mithrandir cut himself off, then started afresh. 

“I know you were raised in the - Silvan manner so I am surprised Thranduil has left you so - unprepared.” Mithrandir coughed again, but it did not seem that there was actually anything wrong with his throat and he did not even have his pipe. He looked past Legolas, over his head. “Most young Elves are given a scroll before they come of age, containing some important information regarding what young Master Took refers to as ‘bedroom relations’. But unless anyone has read it to you -” Mithrandir looked hopeful, then slumped minutely when Legolas raised a curious brow. Mithrandir looked as if he wanted to leave, but was bracing himself for an ordeal.

What followed was the most awkward conversation Legolas had ever had. Some of it Lastedir had told him - but at some points Legolas had had to interject, “-where?!”

Lastedir had in fact told him most of what Mithrandir was saying, but then it had not been so - embarrassing. However, every now and then, Mithrandir would say something Legolas had not known.

Switching to Westron from the Sindarin they had been speaking, Legolas asked Mithrandir to verify Pippin’s explanation of the word he had asked about, not quite trusting Pippin’s definition. “Fuck,” repeated Mithrandir, the apples of his cheeks tinged with pink. He paused, as if considering his answer, then he continued once again in Sindarin.

A long silence had followed the conclusion of Mithrandir’s words. Legolas could confess he was no longer keeping watch effectively and without a word had gone to reverie next to Estel in these last few minutes before dawn.

That morning, Estel had been similarly shifty, but had said nothing, only casting appraising looks Legolas’ way.

As they ate dried fruit to break fast, Pippin sat beside Legolas and in one mouthful finished everything.

Pippin had an earnest, determined look on his face. He took a stick and began to scratch in the ground. B – U – M and sounded out the letters.

“Pip - I know them, it’s just when they are on the page they become - jumbled up.”

Pippin tried another tack. “Listen.”

Legolas had to laugh. “Pippin, - I know the Westron alphabet song.”

Pippin tried a different approach. He flashed all his fingers.”How many are these?”

“Ten.” 

“And now, and now?” - giggling at the rude gestures he chose to represent ones and twos.

“I have no problem with numbers - Aragorn is waiting for you now to practice before we set off today. And brush away those marks. Quickly now.”

Legolas went to fill in the latrine with Boromir. Each night someone dug the hole using a small folding spade Gimli had brought with him. Legolas and Boromir used their feet to fill in the dirt, then they stomped the earth down and covered it with dead branches and scattered stones to make the area look undisturbed.

As they walked back to the camp Boromir said, “I had wondered if you knew numbers.”

Legolas laughed. 

“I have no difficulty with numbers. I can make additions and subtractions, multiplications and divisions also.”

“Was your father not wroth?” Boromir hesitated. “When you failed to - Because you can’t - ?” he trailed off.

“No. One of my brothers sometimes calls me lazy, using that as an example, but it has never been a problem for me.”

“You are fortunate to have such a father.”

Today, Boromir walked with Legolas. They had not yet spoken of such things, but when Legolas felt the inclination to ask, he did not hold back.

“Boromir, your heart - is it free?”

The Man looked startled.

Legolas clarified.

“I mean is there anyone waiting for you in Gondor?”

Boromir relaxed.

“Alas, I have been married to duty these long years. I could not offer a wife the attention she would deserve.” Boromir looked at Legolas, then added. “These many years, my father has been pressing me to marry, to provide an heir. But a part of me knows that once there is an heir after me, Faramir will be shunted even further from the court, as he will no longer have a ‘use’.” Boromir sighed. “But I must admit, it is well past time for me to marry. When I return, my father will serve up on a platter young women of good breeding until I choose one.”

At Legolas’ horrified expression, Boromir said, “- ‘served on a platter’ - it is not literal, it is just an expression.”

But Legolas’ horror remained. The casual way in which he spoke of an heir as someone to replace him, after his own _death._ And Legolas had to ask.

“You would do this? Court one you do not know? Wed one you do not love?”

“Well, I could hardly get to know her well before courting; that would ruin her reputation. And if I court her then change my mind, she will also be ruined. So I would be honorbound to wed. I could probably grow to love her. The noble families present their daughters at court once they are of age, but I do not generally pay those ceremonies much mind. So I’ve most likely seen my bride at least once before, when she was presented in Gondor, but they keep their daughters locked up.” Boromir was quick to correct himself. “Not locked up, just not free to mix with people outside their households.”

“But is there not one woman or Man you are already fond of?”

“Man? - I’m not a Rohan pervert! I’ll turn a blind eye when my men are getting up to whatever it is, as long as they don’t shove it in anyone’s faces. But such inversion to the correct order is not something I can condone, as one meant to uphold the laws and morals of Gondor.”

“Oh!” Legolas whispered.

“There was a young woman once.” Boromir looked over at Legolas as if deciding whether or not he could trust him, “- but she was not suitable.”

“Was she cruel?”

Now it was Boromir’s turn to look taken aback. “No, she was of peasant stock. I know not what became of her.”

Legolas wondered if all Men thought in this way. Legolas had not quite believed Mithrandir when he had said not having treasure made Sam feel - less than. But now...And Estel had not said anything about it being something bad when he told him he had kissed Gimli. Maybe because Legolas and Gimli were not Men it had not been contentious? What of hobbits? Did their lands forbid this too?

The next day, when he and Estel went to a private spot for Legolas to comb and braid, with his back turned Estel began to speak, as if addressing a room. “I am trained as a healer and I need to speak to you of ‘the birds and the bees’.” The last phrase was spoken in Westron.

 _What did being a healer have to do with anything?_ But Legolas would be polite.

“Yes, there is a dear little robin redbreast nearby. He is following us. But the bees - we will only see them again in warmer weather.”

But then came that cough which Legolas was coming to recognise. 

“No, - I meant -”

And for a second time in as many days Legolas heard that it ‘was natural to have feelings’, but this time with a lot more talk of disease, which left Legolas feeling quite unable to eat his breakfast. 

Both Mithrandir and Estel had spoken of love and of marriage, but Lastedir had spoken of pleasure. Thinking of the pleasure he had shared with Gimli, after all that had happened, with the cruel and petty torments all these weeks, Legolas was glad he was not married to Gimli as the Noldor would insist they must be following a union - or in their reckoning, would there be an exception made for a Dwarf? Or did Noldor not see what they had done as ‘union’? 

Legolas could not help his mind from straying to the question, _‘When this anger of his passed, would Gimli wish for another encounter?’_ Legolas pushed the thought from his mind. It was better not to poke sleeping bears.

But Legolas was curious as to whether it would be the same with another - the same feeling of rightness and pure joy - was it common to all such encounters? 

Legolas had already discounted the possibility of Estel. The idea of being with either the hobbits or Mithrandir in that way earned a visceral shudder. Before their conversation, he had thought perhaps Boromir might be willing, but even if he had, there was no privacy here; with Gimli, Legolas had found himself to be loud in a way he had never been alone.

Legolas would focus on this commitment to the Fellowship, then perhaps spend some time travelling before returning home with some new experiences.

Later, as they walked together, Legolas had turned to face Estel and had asked him in a low voice if it was wrong to be with another male, as Boromir had said. ‘Deviant’. Estel’s face had hardened and he said there were many customs and prejudices he would work to root out during his reign. Only deliberate cruelty, and deceit were deplorable in a relationship, not whether or not one was an elleth and the other an ellon. He acknowledged that it was not as common, but reassured Leolas that it was not wrong. He added that when they spoke earlier, he had forgotten to mention that ‘the release of tension’ could cause true sleep in an Elf, and that it was not cause for concern. There was a knowing look with those words.

Several days after the Warg attack, Legolas overheard Frodo say to Gimli, “I owe you a Life Debt.”

Gimli had replied with fondness in his voice, saying, “Bilbo is of the Company. He is family. And so are you. Thus, there are no such debts between us.”

Then Gimli’s posture had changed, and with hard eyes he had looked at Mithrandir. “I’ll thank you not to speak of Dwarrow secrets to all and sundry.”

Frodo had looked hurt. “Gandalf did not tell me, I knew of it from Bilbo.”

Gimli’s face was genuinely apologetic. “I did not mean you, lad.”

Mithrandir replied in a voice almost too quiet to hear. “I told you already, Gimli. I spoke of it to no one.”

A curious mix of emotions flitted over Gimli’s face before it settled into that stern mask. “All were armed, it was a battle situation. I am owed nothing here.” Then he looked pointedly at Legolas. “No one is.”

With that, Gimli once again retreated into himself.

Since the encounter with the Wargs, they had stopped lighting fires. Everything they ate was cold and the supplies loaded onto Bill’s pack were still holding, supplemented by what Sam, Gimli and Estel found to eat growing along their path. Legolas knew Elves could eat some things mortals could not, and did not wish to inadvertently harm anyone in the group with his selections, so added nothing. Legolas was surprised at Gimli’s contribution. He had been told Dwarves knew nothing of growing things. But Gimli had spoken of his travels, and Legolas supposed that finding food on the journey would be a useful skill to have. 

Thus, they traveled for several days, until the the weather changed and the cold began to bite. There came a cold clear dawn at the end of a long stumbling night-march. The travellers reached a low ridge crowned with ancient holly-trees. Legolas thought to himself that Gimli could get along with trees like this. The grey-green trunks seemed to have been built out of the very stone of the hills. Their dark leaves shone and their berries glowed red in the light of the rising sun.

It would be the first time in several days that they dared risk a fire. The outcroppings of rock had kept dry several dead tree trunks, so firewood was plentiful and Gimli had chopped it with the same efficiency he brought to battle.

Gimli addressed Legolas in this new, friendly tone.

“I reckon it’s about your turn to start the fire, lad.”

_Lad?_

Then Legolas’ stomach sank. On patrols, Legolas’ only duty was to kill Spiders and Orcs and Wargs, nothing else. The fire was always made for him. Of course he had _seen_ it being done countless times. In all likelihood, if he made the attempt, it would be successful, but, oh - what if he were not?

And once again, another deficiency he had kept not exactly _hidden,_ but somewhat concealed, was laid bare before the group. They had been so understanding before, and he had resolved to be forthright, but at the same time he had not liked those looks, which he could not tell apart as pity or contempt, and he did not want to see them in his companions’ eyes again. 

“I - “ Legolas shook his head.

Gimli’s smile was gentle.

“Aye, I reckoned that was the way of things.”

He gestured to the kindling before him and took off his gloves. “Let me show you, lad. I’ll not use a flint, I’ll do it the basic way, so that even without a flint you will know what to do.”

Patiently, Gimli demonstrated how to arrange the wood and the twigs, then showed him the motion with his hands. Even as they exchanged shy smiles, Pippin approached saying, “but _everyone_ knows that!”

Gimli did not even pause in his task as he responded.

“Well, Bofur told me Bilbo had written to him and had spoken of you, and of an incident involving you accidentally giving yourself a black eye with a catapult - even a _fauntling_ can do better than that!” Gimli did not give Pippin a chance to respond.

“Aye, so you see, we all need to go at our own pace, and if no one has taught him, how is he to know? What need would a prince have had for starting fires? Run along and tell Sam he can bring his pan for the sausages.”

Gimli turned back to the fire, and Pippin hurried across to Sam to let him know it was ready for him. 

A smile played on Gimli’s lips, but he did not look at Legolas for several minutes.

When he did turn his face towards Legolas again, Gimli asked, “And your bow, lad. I have not seen you oil it, to keep it supple, especially in this weather.”

Legolas felt a sinking feeling. Yet another thing he had overlooked. 

Using the handkerchief from Bilbo, he applied the grease he had at the bottom of his pack. As he carried out the soothing, repetitive motion, he watched Gimli work. Legolas was not quite sure _what_ he was doing, running his hands over the tarpaulins - perhaps checking for holes. Gimli frowned at the muddy handprint of one and flicked his eyes towards Legolas. _Surely he could not tell that was Legolas’ handprint?_

The conversation interrupted by Mithrandir still hung between them. There had been no opportunity to speak again. Legolas could almost _see_ the tension between them, but Legolas did not walk to join the others.

They had lit the fire in a deep hollow shrouded by great bushes of holly, and their supper-breakfast was merrier than it had been since the Warg attack. After eating, Legolas reclined with Boromir and the hobbits. They did not hurry to sleep afterwards for they expected to have all the night to sleep and they did not mean to go on again until the evening of the next day. 

Dead silence was around them and Estel was silent and restless. After a while he left the group and wandered on to the ridge and stood looking out southwards and westwards as if he was listening. 

“All things above us are silent apart from us. I can feel it. There is no sound for miles about us.”

Mithrandir looked up with sudden interest “But what do you guess is the reason? He asked “Is there more in it than surprise at seeing four hobbits, not to mention the rest of us, where people are so seldom seen or heard?”

“I hope that is it," answered Estel. "But I have a sense of watchfulness and of fear that I have never had here before.”

“Then we must be more careful,” said Mithrandir .

Legolas stood up. He listened and indeed noticed the unnatural silence and he remained alert. 

The hobbits had insisted on also now keeping watch. It was Sam’s turn to take the first watch, and Estel joined him. As the others practiced their weapons, or rested in the watery winter sunshine, the silence grew. The swish of Bill’s tail sounded loud. Dead silence was around him and over hung a clear blue sky. A dark patch appeared and grew and drove north like flying smoke in the wind.

“What’s that Strider? It don’t look like a cloud,” said Sam to Estel. Before long, Legolas could see for himself that it was a flock of birds, flying at great speed, wheeling and circling and traversing all the land as if they were searching and were steadily drawing nearer.

“Vanya! Vanya! _Hide!_ ” hissed Legolas. There was no playfulness in his voice. 

The hobbits responded instantly.

Sam scrambled to put out the fire. Mithrandir led Bill to a low overhang of rock and gentled him.

“Lie flat and still!” whispered Estel, pulling Sam down into the shade of a holly-bush: for a while a regiment of birds had broken away suddenly from the main host and came, flying low, straight toward the ridge. They all sought shelter.

Not until they had dwindled into the distance, north and west and the sky was again clear would Estel rise. Then he sprang up. For a long while he conferred with Mithrandir. “Luckily our fire made little smoke and had burned low before the _crebain_ came,” said Estel. “It must not be lit again.”

When the news of no fire and more night travel only was broken to Pippin he cried, “Well that’s a plague and a nuisance.” As an afterthought he added, “Fuck.” 

They were to remain still, and hidden, until the daylight faded.

Boromir was together with Merry and Pippin under a holly tree whose branches spread low and wide. Merry’s plaintive eyes called out to Legolas as the hobbit lay concealed. Legolas shook his head. ‘ _Stay where you are.’_ It looked uncomfortable, but it would not be prudent for him to break cover.

Despite the excitement, Pippin had somehow managed to fall asleep beside Boromir. 

Sam and Frodo were pressed close together in a crevice with Estel.

He could not see Mithrandir, but supposed he was back under the rocky overhang with the pony.

Legolas found himself some distance from the others, and in a strange reversal, Legolas was pressed against the stone, into a fissure of the rock, and Gimli was within a holly bush, his armour saving him from scratches. They both lay on their stomachs, out of sight of the birds.

Gimli’s proximity threw Legolas into a flutter of spirits. To steady his mind, Legolas focused on asking the holly bush to open for Gimli, to yield, and it did so.

For many long minutes they remained in silence.

This was an opportunity to speak, away from listening ears, but now the chance was here, words would not come. 

Into the space between them, Gimli reached out a gloved hand.

Without hesitation, Legolas reached back and their fingers almost touched. But they could not quite meet.

Gimli threw something at him and instinctively, Legolas caught it. He looked in his hand, but this time did not smile. The gold coin he had given Gimli as a gift. It could have been worse. It could have been a knife, one of the ones he had seen Gimli hide in his boots.

Legolas’ heart whispered that maybe Gimli had some affection for him, that their night together was not something he had quickly forgotten and dismissed. But he checked that hope, nay imagination quickly. 

Legolas was ashamed to think of the misapprehension under which Gimli had laboured. _Whore_. Gimli had had reasons to think so, reasons which required no extraordinary stretch of the imagination. 

Legolas decided to begin the conversation at the point before it had started to go wrong, before Mithrandir had interrupted.

“Gimli,” Legolas whispered. “I was not mocking you, or trying to shame you by speaking of your beard in public; I did not know its significance.”

Legolas could hear Gimli breathing heavily, but when he responded, Gimli diverted the conversation.

“When you would disappear with Aragorn, what would you go to do?”

Why was he covering ground they had already been over? Then Legolas thought perhaps Gimli was doing the same as he; retreating to a safe point, where he knew the ground would hold steady, before venturing into more uncertain territory. So he answered patiently.

“It is as I said, I would go to comb my hair; I could not come unbound before strangers. Aragorn would keep watch and I trusted him not to look. The hobbits were friendly and we laughed together but I had known them only those few weeks in Rivendell -” Legolas cut himself off. He did not think it would be helpful to list the degree of friendship he had with each member of the Fellowship, ending with Gimli’s position of ignominy, so he stopped talking. 

“I thought he braided you.” There was no challenge in the tone, so Legolas said nothing and waited.

Gimli cleared his throat. He sounded truly hoarse. He was silent for a few moments until he said a single word. 

“Dale”

Legolas’ throat tightened. They had avoided this word. It felt like approaching a Spider’s nest alone, then hitting at it with a stick. Legolas decided he would first be cautious, talk around the most contentious issue. Legolas whispered in response, “I had never been to Dale alone before the night I met you.”

“Did you know who I was in Dale, before we spoke or before you knew my name?”

Legolas shook his head, ‘no’.

“Legolas.” There was a warning in his voice, low and threatening, but also filled with pain.

Oh Gimli! Legolas’ heart clenched and before he realised what he was doing, he urged the bush to extend its cover and he wriggled closer to Gimli. Legolas extended his hand towards Gimli's, this time close enough to touch.

But Gimli did not take it. His face still looked as if it had been chiselled from stone. Only his eyes moved, searching over Legolas’ face, as if looking for something.

Gimli closed his eyes for several long moments, then looked at Legolas again.

Legolas waited until Gimli met his eyes. He recognised that look. It was the look his ada gave him when he used to ask how lessons had gone. It was the look of someone who was quite sure he was about to be lied to. That the one telling the lie was confident that even if he were caught in that lie there would be no real consequence.

Gimli’s knuckles were white as he clenched his hands. He continued, “So, you came as a spy?”

The turn of Gimli’s question took Legolas by surprise.

Legolas frowned. “Spying?”

Gimli repeated himself.

“Were you spying? You took me to your room, for information.”

So this was yet another dishonour Gimli thought him capable of. If it were another time, Legolas would have shouted. He would have said _‘I followed you into the room. I never asked you to come with me!’_ He would have sworn. He knew many foul Westron words now. He could say them if he wanted. 

But he kept his breathing deliberately slow. Legolas stepped back in his thoughts and reached his hand to one of the branches instead. Its thorns yielded for his hand and Legolas drew some comfort from its presence, though it was far more aloof than any of his trees at home would be, unless they had fallen completely into Shadow.

“I came to Dale to be away from my people for a time. They treat me like an elfling sometimes. I - I just wanted to be somewhere else, for a time. I was not spying.”

Giml seemed to ponder his words, then his face became closed again. 

“But your father sends spies. To Dale.”

“Yes.”-- Legolas answered.

Gimli moved to speak, but Legolas cut him off.

“But as I said, I was in Dale to get away from the forest. I am not permitted to spy.” Was it to be a repetition of the conversation so many weeks ago in Imladris? “I told you before, I have not been trained to do so.” 

Gimli spoke, but now Legolas could not quite read Gimli’s tone. 

“Elf, even if you had spied, as your lord king did bid, you owed me nothing and meant no hurt by it. I too am subject to the desires of my monarch and I understand.”

Gimli looked across at him, his expression searching. Then he nodded as if he were satisfied that the truth had been spoken.

“But you lured me to your room.”

The tension in the lines of Gimli’s body told Legolas how on edge he still was.

“No, Gimli. If you recall, you are the one who came with me of your own choice.” Gingerly, Legolas ventured a question of his own. “Why _did_ you come with me?”

“I thought I was keeping you safe.”

Again, Legolas was surprised. “From what?”

Legolas could see the way Gimli’s hands shook slightly as he ran them over the rock.

As Gimli did not answer, Legolas ventured another question of his own.

“Why did you give _me_ coin?”

“The money you had with you was too fancy, your purse too full. I did not want someone to hurt you, seeing you jangling those coins about.”

“Why would anyone hurt me, for coin?”

Gimli looked dumbfounded. Then shook his head. “There are some among Men who would do so.” Gimli’s voice was low and soft when he spoke. “I wanted to keep you safe from all the Men, eyeing your gem, and your coins. I did not know that you would be safe with or without me.”

At the confused tilt of Legolas’ head Gimli continued.

“You were safer in that tavern than anywhere else in Dale. All Elves are. It is known to all, apart from me.”

Legolas cast his mind back to that evening. To all the stares and the looks and the whispers. “I did not think of danger. I was wondering why they stared.”

Gimli snorted. “For one thing, they were looking at that gem, which could have been a Silmaril, the light it cast. They were also looking at your pouch. All that coin.”

“But why? Because they are beautiful?”

Gimli looked as if he were about to say something, then swallowed instead. “No, Elf. Do you not know what it is to toil, to be exhausted, to be hungry, to need money for bread for your children? _Shit._ " 

Gimli paused for a moment, then spoke in a softer tone. "You do not know. All those things are outside your experience.” Gimli’s anger seemed to be ebbing away now. “They saw all your wealth and wanted it for themselves.”

“So why did they not ask?”

Gimli just shook his head.

Legolas shifted and drew with his finger in the rich earth where the stone ended.

“Lad, I don’t know what it is like where you are from, but outside of your forest, it is each person for himself.”

Legolas was starting to see.

“My father, Thranduil, provides for all. The forest which is not under Shadow gives freely and when we are hungry we eat, when we are tired, we rest. If we see something beautiful we share it with a friend and if a friend holds something we desire, we ask for it and we share it.” Legolas did not want to say, _’Like I shared the coin with you. I thought you would like how it looked.’_ He held the coin in his hand and traced the markings with his fingers.

Again, Legolas turned the conversation. “When I returned to my home after Dale I was punished.”

“For fucking a Dwarf?”

A frisson ran through Legolas, but he continued, voice low and steady. “No, for leaving the kingdom without permission and not saying where I had gone. I did not speak of our encounter. To guard Gollum was my punishment - you know how that ended. And one of the Elves in my charge died.”

In the silence, Gimli’s eyes looked compassionate. When Legolas feared he might be overwhelmed with thoughts of Gilron, he spoke again.

“Gimli, you told your father about - about Dale?”

“I had to, they were worried I might have shared State secrets. Your Elves in the Boar’s Head try to worm out the secrets of Dale, do they not?”

“True.” Now Legolas had a better understanding of why Gimli had seemed fixated on the idea of spying. In the interests of full disclosure Legolas added, “I spoke to Aragorn and told him we had kissed." He felt he needed to explain his reasons for sharing that information. “I was alone and it was a heavy secret to bear - I did not tell all. Only that we kissed.”

Legolas thought about trying to end this conversation now. Gimli was still angry, but now that he understood there had been no spying, perhaps things could be cordial between them. They could be civil. They could sit next to each other at mealtimes. They could walk together. Perhaps Gimli could smile at him again.

That would be enough.

But Gimli was not finished. Legolas forced himself to look confident.

“Did you know then what it meant to,” - he blushed - “to touch my beard?”

 _Elbereth._ Were they just going to go round and round with the same questions? Again, Legolas shook his head, ‘no’.

Gimli asked in a calm voice, almost sounding defeated. “Why did you give me the gem?” Gimli breathed slowly, his eyes closed, “and the coin?”

Finally. The root of the matter.

“I am sorry,'' said Legolas, grieved that his own ignorance had caused this rift. “I should have paid more attention the times I was in Dale before, I should have remembered the customs of mortals - people outside Mir- my home, surrounding money.”

Gimli swallowed, eyes still closed. “But you have not answered, why did you give me those things? Was it -”

Gimli stopped, unable to finish his sentence.

Legolas spoke, “The gem - I gave you the gem because it was the colour of flame, of sunset, of amber. It was the colour of your hair and it was beautiful. I hoped that you would like it and that you would not look so fierce and angry when you looked at me.”

Gimli’s face crumpled, but he remained silent.

Legolas did not want to say the wrong thing here. It was like trying to climb between trees across a network of vines. One misstep would lead to Gimli being once more out of reach.

Legolas spoke again. “The coin. It was not about _whore.”_

Gimli waited.

“I - I know Dwarves like gold -”

Legolas saw Gimli’s face flash with anger. Before he could even think about it, the words were spilling out. “I thought you would like it because it is pretty, and Dwarves like gold.” 

Legolas pressed the coin into Gimli’s hand. He could feel the tension and the wound up energy. His hands were so large and strong, but he remembered how gentle they could be.

He studied Gimli’s form as he lay stiffly. Legolas prepared himself for a verbal blow, or whatever was coming his way.

Instead Gimli asked again.

“Why. Did. You. Give. Me. This. Coin. Elf?”

Legolas noticed he did not use ‘Elf’ as a swear word this time, the way he had often done in Imladris. 

Gimli was obviously very angry. Legolas needed to choose his words carefully. Legolas licked his lips. “Gimli,” he started softly, “I thought you would like it.”

Gimli’s nostrils flared, but he did not interrupt.

Legolas, despite feeling the awkwardness and anxiety of the situation, forced himself to speak and not find a refuge in silence.

“I gave it to you because I thought you would like it. See how it gleams. Is it not pretty?”

He did not want to ruin the moment but if they were going to be - friends, Legolas was not willing to let any untruth remain between them. “Gimli. At the beginning, it is true, I was not sure if you were a pleasure worker. I thought you might be, but you were a Dwarf, not a Man and you did not discuss payment, so I assumed not. My brother told me they always asked for payment before going up. We do not bed any compelled by coin.”

Legolas’ hand was still pressed against Gimli’s closed fist and he brought the other one to enclose it.

“I wanted you to have something beautiful, so that when you looked at it you would remember our time together.” Legolas turned in the confined space to try and face Gimli as Gimli turned his face away. “What we shared was special to me, and I did not want you to forget. I wanted you to look at it and think of me.”

The silence drew on for so long, Legolas wondered if Gimli would speak again.

Legolas repeated himself. “It was a gift, Gimli. A gift for you to remember me by.”

Anger. Legolas felt angry at this Dwarf. So all these months. _Months_ , he had been angry because of _this._ It was for nothing. If they were close enough Legolas would have shoved him. Legoals withdrew his hands.

“We have so little time and you wasted it. That time is gone. We do not get it back.”

Legolas’ anger now spoke for him.

“And my father - you hate me because of my father."

Gimli felt as if he was speaking from far away, but his voice felt surprisingly steady. “You are not your father any more than I am mine.”

Gimli sounded resigned, and Legolas deflated.

Gimli’s next questions were a jumble, as if his mind were a container and he needed to scrape out everything.

“And why did you make me speak to you, why did you not tell me your name? Were you pretending to sleep? Legolas, you asked me questions.” Gimli rasped. “You made me talk! I remember! You asked me to talk.”

Legolas thought they had already established he was not spying, but he answered with all the patience he could summon.

“I wished to hear your voice. Your voice soothed me. It reached a part of me - I was not really listening to your words.”

“So,” Gimli was speaking more to himself now than he was communicating with Legolas.

“You did not try to buy information or affection.”

Legolas stroked Gimli’s closed fist. He could do no less.

“I wanted to hear your voice in my ear again. It is like the low rumble of clouds before a storm. It made me feel safe. I did not pay much attention to what you said apart from your name.”

Like a swift summer storm, the anger on Gimli’s face had blown past. Now, when he spoke he did not meet Legolas’ eye. “Why did you not tell me your name?”

A flash of guilt thrummed through Legolas. “I did not think to say it.” The full truth was the only currency he could use here, so Legolas spoke on. “Then as I rode away, I thought of turning around to tell you, but-” Legolas bit his lip. “I thought we would never see each other again. And if I saw you again, and you were old, I did not want you to call out my name. It would hurt me too much, I think, to see you withered and old calling to me, for I would remain unchanged.”

Legolas looked at him. “And, it was true sleep. I trusted you. With you I felt safe,” Legolas repeated. “I asked you to speak because I needed your voice in the dark. I fell asleep again before I could tell my name, and you were asleep when I left in the morning. I was going to come back and tell you my name - but...”

Legolas tried to gauge the reaction to his words but Gimli’s face was inscrutable.

Legolas braved the potential wrath, Gimli would not compromise their safety by shouting, but Legolas feared cruel words. Nevertheless, Gimli deserved to know.

“I did not come back to tell you my name because I did not want you to find me when your hair became white. I wanted to remember you as you were that night.”

I did not ask your name because I did not want to one day know for certain you were dead. I could pretend that any red haired dwarf I noticed might be you.”

Gimli’s breathing sounded ragged.

“You were not trying to buy me, to buy my affection.” Gimli spoke as if in a daze.

“But I already told you-” Legolas was beginning to feel exasperated. “Even if I thought you were a pleasure worker, I would have given you a coin at the beginning, as is the custom, I’ve been told. Why would I do so only _after_ we had already shared of ourselves?”

Gimli’s voice was strained. “And Gandalf did not speak to you of the Life Debt.”

Gimli had drawn back his hands to cover his own eyes. 

Legolas whispered, “No. I first heard those words when you spoke with Frodo. What is that?”

The thick silence covered them, the shadows moved along the ground as long moments passed.

Gimli did not answer Legolas' question.

Legolas spoke again into the silence. “You thought I used you? I will never forget your face, Gimli, when you saw me at the Council, when you called me foul.”

“Oh no, do not repeat what I said then.” 

Legolas’ mouth was moving as if he could not find words.

“You should have told me - you should have said - Oh.” Legolas covered his own face with his hands. He felt drumming in his ears and a spinning sensation. So all this time. All this time. 

“That is why you have been cold towards me?” He paused. _Not just cold, hateful_. Legolas’ arms folded tightly, almost as if he were embracing himself. His hands clenched then relaxed.

The horror of it was beginning to sink in. Legolas had confirmed that for all these months, his Dwarf. _Yes. His Dwarf,_ thought that Legolas had manipulated and used him in Dale. Legolas felt faint with disgust. Disgust not at Gimli for putting together what he knew, to come to the wrong conclusion. Not at himself, he had not acted dishonourably. Legolas’ disgust was simply at the entire situation and at the pain both he and Gimli had had to carry unnecessarily.

For a long time they lay in silence, regarding each other. Since Dale, they had only been able to steal glances at each other, even after the thaw, before which any attention from Legolas had been met only with hostility.

“You did not try to buy me.” Gimli was like a bear, slowly waking from hibernation, gaining his bearings. He looked slow and confused.

“You cannot buy a person, Gimli.”

“So,” Gimli was speaking more to himself now, than he was communicating with Legolas, “you did not try to buy information or affection.”

Gimli murmured and Legolas could barely catch the words. “You made me talk. I remember. You asked me to talk.”

Legolas knew it was not a good idea even as he risked losing the cover of the bush, and inched toward Gimli. “I wanted to hear your voice in my ear again.”

Legolas’ mouth came out with something stupid, trying to lighten the tension. “Perhaps _you_ paid _me_. You gave me a purse which still had your own coin within.”

Legolas knew in a second he had said the wrong thing.

Gimli spat out, ”You think I would pay you coppers to bed you, seeing the pile of coin you already had before you?”

He swore in that harsh language of his. Legolas did not know what it meant, but it could not be anything other than an oath.

Valar. Legolas had provoked him back to his original fixation.

“Legolas,” He spoke as though he did not really expect an answer. “I thought we had shared something special, then you paid me.”

Legolas bit his lip, trying to decide what to say. Legolas himself was hurt that Gimli had thought that of him. But he needed Gimli to be calm, the situation was already too volatile.

“It was very special for me.”

He watched Gimli’s eyes scanning over him, as if searching for something. Legolas focused on keeping his breathing steady.

Legolas’ ventured closer still and his hand was on Gimli’s shoulder. “Gimli, I knew you were no - whore.” The unfamiliar word was awkward on his tongue. “I just thought you would like a token to remember me by.” Heat flooded Legolas’ face and he sucked in a breath.

Eventually, Gimli spoke again, as if in a daze.

“So you were willing, you did not spy on me, and you did not try to buy favours from me?”

When Legolas shook his head, Gimli buried his head in his arms and his shoulders shook with heaving, silent tears.

**a/n - a lot of the text surrounding Hollin - the description of the trees and hiding from crebain is directly from canon.**

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fauntling = hobbit child
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback last chapter - I was really moved. Thanks for reading and for your support.
> 
> What did you think? Comments in the language you are most comfortable in are welcome 🙂


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - for this chapter I've found myself in the (very greedy) position where I've had help, support, input, and feedback from four people. I feel like an ancient person on one of those fancy carrying chairs. They've each brought something different and I am so grateful. It's like that episode of Star Trek where the diplomat is from that planet where they have - anyway, never mind. I just wanted to say thank you to the readers and a special thanks for the feedback and comments. And this story would be much poorer without the betas who have helped me, so thank you again to them.
> 
> Check out their stories, they are talented writers and I am sure you would enjoy their works; Aylwyyn, Cassunjey, de_la_cruz_87 and last but not least ac_daniels (Aquamarina)

As the sun set, casting coloured tendrils across the sky, they emerged from where they had concealed themselves. Their passage south was now evidently being watched, thus, they were to head for the pass of Caradhras. 

While in their hiding place, he and Legolas had not spoken further. The brief relief of Gimli’s tears had passed. Afterwards, they had remained wrapped up in silence, a heavy fabric, made in large part of Gimli’s own shame and regret. 

There were years where Gimli would spend the entire winter inside Erebor. The land beyond would be grey and stripped out, the trees like inky markings against the sky. Several months later he would emerge to the spring. To the smells of vitality, to green leaves and frolicking creatures. Something of that nature appeared to have taken place within him. Like snowmelt, his anger at Legolas; his parentage, everything - had trickled away. He could not choose to whom he was born, any more than Ori had chosen to be born a bastard. His suspicion was ground down to dust and blown away, leaving only a few grains.

Gimli looked across and saw Tharkûn regarding him. _Like mole shit, there he was when you least expected it, popping up when you’re minding your own business._ But now that he knew what he did about Tharkûn, Gimli felt much more kindly disposed towards him. He felt like a link to home. He was one of the Company, even if he had not signed anything, and had been called away in circumstances he had not been at liberty to explain. 

Legolas did not approach Gimli as they set out that evening. Gimli walked, striving to be composed, but anxious curiosity drew his eyes to Legolas’ face. When he met Gimli’s gaze the colour rose in his face and ears. He looked more agitated than usual, but still somehow serene. Not angry as Gimli had expected, after finding out how he had been regarded these past months. He met Gimli’s eyes and they seemed free of resentment. But still, Legolas did not speak. Perhaps, the Elf had made the decision to distance himself permanently from Gimli. It was a painful, but not improbable speculation. Gimli’s heart clenched at the thought. 

Legolas did not speak to him. Was he indifferent?

Gimli followed him with his eyes.

Little of what the Elf _\- Legolas -_ he corrected, had said was completely new to him. In the days after the conversation with Tharkûn, even before, the ideas had been fermenting until they had become a heady and powerful brew. He knew them to be true, but hearing them from Legolas had shaken his foundations yet again. Intellectually he had understood, but it had not been easy to change the pattern of his thoughts towards the Elf, and only those slender hands over his own, and his soft voice speaking truth over and over again had been enough to draw Gimli free from the mire of his disordered ideas.

They walked in the deep evening shadow and Gimli was deep in his thoughts until he felt a small hand in his own gloved hand. Pippin was scrutinizing his face. Gimli knew he looked terrible; his face felt puffy, and his eyes were probably red. He had hoped that in the failing light his companions would not notice. He had been glad of Bilbo’s handkerchief, and had wet it from his canteen of water in an attempt to clean his face, but he knew he must still look a sight.

Pippin spoke softly. 

“The birds frightened me too, it is alright to be afraid but do not worry, we are all together.”

Pippin reached up to pat Gimli’s arm and his face was full of sincerity and for once, without mischief.

“Thank you, Pippin.”

Pippin nodded and continued. “Merry and me, see, we are used to running away and hiding from farmer Maggot. I stopped being scared of that sort of thing years ago, but I expect it’s still new for you. And we were with Boromir - you know how he likes to go on about Gondor, so I just listened and was asleep in no time! If you’re ever afraid again like that, find Legolas, he’s good for that sort of thing.” Pippin paused, then added, “Or me.”

Gimli suppressed a smile, not wishing to belittle the kind words. 

“Thank you, Master Took.”

“I can walk with you today, Gimli - if you like.”

Gimli responded, knowing he was mangling the phrase, “You are a good friend .”

“No, need to swear at me! Knobhead!”

Gimli laughed, and gently cuffed his head, as Pippin ran off to join Frodo, further ahead.

As the dawn arrived, they stopped again to make camp. Gimli collected fallen pine nuts. At this point in the year only few remained. He gathered the kernels in his cloak then repeatedly pounded it against a rock to loosen the seeds and shelled them individually. They tasted better roasted, but even in this state they made a good supplement to their meagre rations. He gave a handful of each to the hobbits, whose stomachs were constantly rumbling. Merry and Pippin threw their handful into their mouths in one motion. They were no longer doing as they had in Rivendell, making a game of catching food in their mouths. Now every crumb was eaten with care. With Rivendell brought to mind, Gimli hoped his father fared well among all the Elves and had not recklessly departed to try and journey alone. 

Aragorn prepared their meal, thinly slicing starchy tubers he had dug up to be eaten raw, together with other plants gathered along the way as they walked. It was a contradiction of a meal to Gimli. On the one hand, the wild tubers were considered a poor Dwarf’s fare. He was very familiar with the tubers, having often eaten them himself both as he travelled with his work and growing up. Without these wild tubers, they probably would have starved and they often travelled great distances to forage for them. On the other hand, the fresh leaves Aragorn had coated in oil and vinegar from their supplies would be considered a luxury in Erebor. 

The area around the mountain, the Desolation of Smaug as it was now known, had still not fully recovered, and little grew around Erebor. They traded far and wide, but for logistical reasons produce was usually dried, brined or pickled by the time they reached Erebor. To eat fresh fruits, and vegetables was a sign of luxury now, even though to those who had lived in exile, it whispered of days of scrounging from fields and trees. Erebor-born Dwarves, however, were impressed by a table of fresh produce. 

Gimli watched Aragorn as he sliced, and recognised the same intensity of focus in this Man as there had been in Thorin. Gimli wondered if they would be used in his quest for the throne, as chalk in the grappling ring; useful, then discarded as soon as its purpose was served. He wondered also what place there would be for Boromir in Gondor if Aragorn succeeded. 

Reminded of Thorin, Gimli recalled how growing up, he had modelled himself on Thorin, who espoused chastity as he focused on his goal of reclaiming Erebor. Fili had not held to that and Gimli was fascinated by the lurid tales he told of his encounters, though with hindsight he came to realise they had been embellished. Gimli had been sixty-four when Erebor was reclaimed, and in the preceding years, the emphasis on chastity had had little impact on him as he had only just awoken to such feelings. But once they reached Erebor, Gimli had been inundated with offers. The son of a Hero of Erebor; everyone wished to be his friend, and more. They lived in luxurious accommodations close to the palace, and in the early days, their receiving rooms were almost always full of well-wishers. 

It had taken Gimli several years to realise most were not interested in him but in his position; what he could do for them. Make available that coveted apprenticeship, discounts on jewels from Glóin’s workshop or even simply invitations to gatherings where the influential would be. 

After a few years of this, Gimli had begun to stick to liaisons with those he had known before Erebor, or those he met outside Erebor, while travelling, and who were thus unaware of his background. Then, for a few years when they had been courting, he had thought Gudrun would be his last partner, but that had ended. 

Gimli wondered if Legolas’ experience might have been similar. Being a prince, those around him may have been seeing the title and not him, and Gimli could understand why he would tire of that. Gimli still did not understand the prevalence of the saying ‘ _Elves don’t fuck'_ , but privacy was once again in short supply and there was no opportunity to speak further. 

All he could manage was to share looks with Legolas, and he hoped they conveyed his apology and desire to repair the path between them. What had existed between them in Dale had been shattered. Whatever could be salvaged would need to be put together, piece-by-piece.

At sunset, again they walked, and Gimli saw Sam slip his handful of pine nuts into Frodo’s pocket. Frodo frowned, but after a wordless discourse passed between them, he sighed and nodded his thanks. Later that day, Gimli had walked next to Sam for a spell. Utilizing all the skills Nori had taught him, Gimli bumped into Sam and as he apologised, he slipped the remaining pine nuts into Sam’s own pocket.

Perhaps he should find a gem of his own to give Legolas. The only ones he had on his person were his beads, and they were too imbued with meaning to give away. What would an Elf like? A gem of nature; perhaps a pearl. And he had spoken of amber. But such a thing would need to wait until he was in a place where he could purchase a worthy item.

He looked back at Legolas, as if the sight of him might inspire an idea. Legolas had explained that he could eat many things ‘mortals’ could not, so Gimli was not shocked when he saw him eating holly berries. 

Legolas was as likely to give a gift of a leaf as of an emerald, so Gimli decided to work with what was available for now, until he could think of what to do.

“Legolas, do you still have your handkerchief?” Gimli asked, the first time he had spoken directly to him since Holin.

Silently, Legolas handed it over. As he walked, Gimli removed his gloves and plucked several berries. He paused to strip a bush of its berries, then moved on to the next and continued to do so until the knotted handkerchief was full. Meeting his eyes as he handed it over, Legolas made a gesture of thanks. As their bare fingers touched, Gimli's heart faltered in its rhythm. 

Casting a sidelong glance at his face, Gimli remembered how furious Legolas had looked. ‘ _That time is gone. We do not get it back.’_ In all his recitals of the Elvenking’s malice, Glóin had always painted Thranduil in icy colours, and Gimli had imagined the son to be the same; cold and precise malevolence. And the Elves in Rivendell had seemed to glide and were so serene, Gimli would never have imagined the passionate anger that had been on Legolas’ face, though he should have guessed. 

At the Council, Legolas had accused Gimli of being the one who was _‘stone hearted’._ And given the new perspective, Gimli could see why he felt that way. _Poor Elf_. How must he have felt to be given the cold shoulder by a lover and not know why?

From Legolas’ perspective, he had seen a lover, one he had never expected to meet again. It would have been inappropriate to embrace before the Council, but a polite word at the very least would have been the minimum decent response. Gimli put his hands on his helm. He had hurt the Elf. 

Legolas had been genuinely at a loss in that Mannish place and had not lured him to the table with the pile of coins. The touch of the beard had been the curiosity of one who could not grow one. He had not paid for pleasure, and had not practiced on him the gentle spying common to the Boar's Head Tavern. 

This Elf did not use coin in his daily life and did not see it as payment. They had shared a physical encounter, held each other and spoken in the night. Did not lovers talk in the dark, when they wanted only closeness and comfort? He had not tried to pry anything from Gimli, just lay in Gimli’s arms as he talked; pillow talk. Not spying. And Legolas had not been withholding his name, or information. It was not uncommon to be tired and untalkative after love making. To Legolas, they had fallen into bed in the ordinary way of things, then weeks later, he had been met with a stony reaction.

 _Stone hearted naugrim. Cold hearted naugs. Legolas_ had not used the slur, but now Gimli could see why he felt the sentiment was apt. He tugged on his braid. How could he ever find the words to fix this? Would he even want Gimli’s apology? Perhaps he wanted nothing to do with him, given how he had behaved, and Gimli could understand it. The assessment he had made in the first few seconds in the Boar’s Head had been correct, but for months he had been earning the indignation and upset he had heard in Legolas’ voice. The fast breathing and the flushed face.

Gimli had once tupped a dam, only to find out she was a sister to a trading post overseer he regularly met, and emerging tousled from her bedchamber in the morning had led to an uncomfortable situation. The brother was very much of the traditionalist school of thought, and it had been very awkward to meet him afterwards. That was once every few years. How much more awkward now for Legolas to be travelling with Gimli, with the full knowledge of the misapprehension under which Gimli had been labouring?

He did not doubt the Elf had spoken the truth. A part of him _knew_ it, in his very foundations. There had been moments when he felt like he had known Legolas for a long time, such as when they had fought, side-by-side against the Wargs. The way they had fallen in sync together; he had only managed to do so before with Fili and Kili, after decades of training together with the same tutor. 

The Elf had not attempted to manipulate him with gold. He simply did not understand coin, and Gimli’s reading of the situation in Dale had been largely correct. Nori had rightly taught him to trust his own senses. 

Gimli recalled that look on Legolas’ face as he had walked into the tavern. It was etched onto Gimli’s memory. The look had indeed been pride, but not a haughty pride; it was a pride in accomplishment, the same as when he had chopped the onions then looked to Tharkûn for approval, or when he had lit the fire, then smiled to himself. And Gimli could see the looks he had read as arrogant, were those of curiosity.

 _Mahal!_ Even now as Gimli looked across at him, Legolas’ face was so soft and open. 

It had not been unreasonable for Gimli to suspect spying, especially given that Nori, a spy himself, had told him it was so. But now, with the whole truth of the matter laid plainly before him, it was difficult to decide whether relief or anger took precedence. Anger at himself, or at Legolas or everyone involved. The vague suspicions and unsettled thoughts, the ‘knowledge’ of treachery; these had tormented him for months. Images of what Legolas may have been plotting had disturbed his rest these long weeks. But Legolas had done no wrong. Aye, he had ignored and shunned Gimli, but would any being, a prince no less, stand still and allow himself to be pelted by small, stinging stones? Except Legolas had allowed it, he had barely retaliated and had acted with grace and restraint. Gimli’s face burned with shame. Legolas had dismissed and excluded Gimli, but what choice had he? What else could he do when Gimli had been so hostile?

In asking to forget the past Legolas had not been speaking of the Life Debt, or dismissing the lives of the Company as being worthless. It had been yet another gesture of conciliation, which Gimli had crushed. 

Gimli was not quite willing to dismiss the Elf’s designs on the Ring yet, but now he approached the matter with the same caution he did for any of them; none of them here was above suspicion and there was no special focus on Legolas. 

It was very painful to know how wrong he had been. Gimli turned over Tharkûn’s words of how this matter concerned the Valar. He could not turn back time, as Legolas had said. He grieved over every sharp word, every petty action and stinging jibe he had directed at Legolas. All the swearing under his breath. Gimli was humbled, but also somehow proud of Legolas that he had not retaliated. _Oh, and how much worse could it have become._ The worst Legolas had done was turn away or snap a few terse words. He had been _\- princely_. 

And thinking of Tharkûn; the Wizard had not capriciously abandoned the Company. Gimli’s face heated. Tharkûn had endured years of suspicion. An apology would not be enough. He felt respect for both, though mixed with regret at how they had accepted the insults both veiled and explicit. Neither had escalated the situation.

Gimli thought of Balin. Once he had said that in the arena of statecraft and diplomacy, _‘the information one receives from others is important, but what one observes for oneself is vital’_. On one occasion, Gimli had accompanied Balin to a Mannish settlement to trade for grain. The people waiting at home had been hungry. After only a few minutes, Balin had said he would not accept the sacks of grain and had turned to leave. Gimli had wanted to lash out at Balin, to say _‘do you not see the people at home are hungry?’_ But he had held his peace. When they were far from the settlement, Balin had spoken, pointing out that beneath a thin layer of high-quality grain it was mainly chicken-feed. 

Gimli knew what chicken feed consisted of; the ends of vegetables, chopped up. Gimli had even foraged for grubs and insects to feed the fowl, and they would supplement that with grain that was spoiled or blighted already. Balin had seen that the deal was too good to be true and looked closer. 

If people had eaten that, they would have fallen ill, and once they had made payment, they would not be able to return the grain. The Men would have said _‘you Dwarves must have improperly stored or transported it,’_ and complaints would have fallen on deaf ears.

In a similar way, there was a thin layer of truth to the slanders against the Elf, but Gimli had watched him these long weeks. His care for the hobbits had never wavered. He had only ever been kind to them. Even now, he was playing the game Gimli had taught the hobbits, and he could see how Legolas held back and allowed Pippin to win. He congratulated him as the young hobbit beamed with pride. Legolas had thrown his own body between Gimli and a Warg. 

And the gifts, the endless gifts. _Durin_. He realised now that even pointing out an unusual beetle’s shell, directing them to smell a winter flower or look at a funny cloud was a kind of gift from Legolas. Gimli had grown up with hardship. He was suspicious of ‘free gifts’. One did not get something for nothing from a stranger. Legolas did not think Dwarves were greedy nor that his people were full of avarice. The etchings of the coin were fine craftsmanship and the coin indeed had a pleasing gleam. It was a gift. But just because Gimli was not used to such things, it did not mean it was not so. He did not pay for affection, it simply gave Legolas joy to share in this way.

 _Oh Mahal,_ the dismay on the Elf’s face. How was Gimli going to undo that?

Gimli remembered when Legolas had sat on the ground, relaxed, leaning against Tharkûn’s knee, as he told the tale of the trolls and the Company. Even if he could not read minds, surely, Tharkûn was at least as good a judge of character as Nori. Surely he would not permit himself to be taken in, and endanger Frodo. Everyone in the Fellowship was fond of Legolas. The Elf was as sweet as he seemed.

Gimli recalled the slammed doors in Rivendell and the Elf’s pleading eyes. Gimli had not allowed him to speak in private, and Gimli could not blame him for not wanting a public setting for such an intimate conversation.

‘Gimli’s beard is very soft’. It was not the Elf making a lewd statement to shame him. He knew nothing of beards. He had not tried to provoke a reaction in Gimli. It was an act of conciliation, like the gem.

And in the Boar’s Head tavern, how would Legolas have recognised the portrait of a chubby dwarrowling in a prisoner’s locket, from eighty years in the past, as being the same Dwarf standing before him? What would an Elf know of the changes time brought? One of his cousins on his mother’s side had settled in the Iron Hills. When he saw her children after a gap of fifty years, Gimli had hardly recognised them. If Gimli could not recognise his own kin, how could Gimli expect Legolas to have recognised him as being the same dimpled, fat-cheeked pebble, with only a wispy beard and a pathetic rat-tail of a braid? The encounter in Dale had indeed been a chance one. In the tavern he had seemed unfamiliar with Mannish ways, because he was unfamiliar with Mannish ways.

Gimli thought of his shock after seeing Bilbo after so many years, at how he had aged. Gimli could not blame Legolas for not wanting to see the same in him.

And the raw strength of him when he had stabbed the Warg. The skill of his bow! Apart from whatever it was Tharkûn did with his staff, none could stand against him, and the staff seemed to require some sort of warm up to work. Legolas could have taken the ring. But he had not. _Oh, fuck_. What had he done?

Gimli walked on through the deepening chill of the air.

Thinking again of Balin, Gimli recalled Balin taking Gimli and Bofur to see a device which could measure the passage of time, and tell the hour of the day, without the need for the burning of a candle or the measurement of a water wheel. Instead it used a series of tiny internal wheels and gears. Gimli watched it being taken apart, then put back together again. All the parts needed to be put in the correct place, otherwise it would not function. Balin had told him that this was true statscraft; the ability to think clearly and order one’s thoughts correctly. Would Gimli ever be able put together the pieces of whatever relationship it was that they had? 

The first step was an apology, he knew that much.

And why should Gimli seek privacy to apologise? It was before them all Gimli had acted like dwarrowling and tormented this Elf. While his courage was still hot, he braced himself to speak.

Then he saw Pippin put a berry in his mouth, even as his other hand moved to pluck more.

Gimli strode over and smacked the berries out of his hand. Then he squeezed his cheeks together to force his mouth open. “Spit them out!”

Gimli’s heart was racing. _Bone and gravel!_

Had this hobbit been poisoned before his very eyes, and by holly berries, meant to show contrition?

“Aragorn!” Gimli called over. “Have you a purgative?”

Aragorn strode over, taking in the situation at once. “How much have you ingested?”

“Just one,” Pippin replied, “And it tasted like Orc turds. I don’t know why you like them, Legolas.” Pippin was now scraping his tongue with his teeth. Tharkûn and the other hobbits appeared completely unaffected, while Boromir seemed nonplussed. 

“He’s always eating things he shouldn’t, like a little faunt.” Merry explained. Turning back to Pippin he added, “You better not get sick. We’ve lost time already changing our route, we don’t need you slowing us down with a belly-ache.”

“It was only one,” Pippin grumbled, then stomped off.

“Thank you, Aragorn.” Gimli said, heart still racing. He was glad Aragorn had responded, even though no aid had been necessary in the end. Before he turned to walk on, Gimli held his hand up. “Sorry.”

Aragorn raised a brow and Gimli was strongly reminded of Lord Elrond in his expression.

 _Slug trails_ , Gimli muttered to himself, then spoke to Aragorn.

“I apologise. I have been less than civil on this journey.” He paused, “And, I have spoken of things I should not. Things that are not my concern. I beg your pardon.” Gimli choked out the last words. _This was no king of his_ , but Gimli’s contrition was real.

Aragorn looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once. “But I am not the only one to whom you owe an apology.” As he spoke he looked over at Legolas. 

“I know,” whispered Gimli.

Aragorn appeared surprised, then considering, but said nothing.

Gimli filled the silence. “Look, I’ve been a hammerhead - a prick, and I’m sorry. There was a misunderstanding, but we are digging past it.”

Aragorn’s face softened, then he gripped Gimli’s arm for a long moment, before walking ahead to rejoin Tharkûn.

Somehow Pippin was next to him again. “Aye, you’ve been quite an arse to the big folk, excepting Boromir.”

At Gimli’s growl he ran away, but his words stayed with Gimli. Indeed, he had been running round like an incontinent goat, full of shit.

Gimli ruminated. He would wait until they stopped for the day, then he would speak his apology before them all.

As they walked, the trees grew fewer and fewer, and snow began to cover the ground. Gimli had offered to cut up some canvas for the hobbits to make foot coverings for them. They all four had thrown identical glares and he had shrunk back, with his hands raised in apology.

Once again, they were now travelling by day. The peril of getting lost in the snow in the dark was worse than of being observed. 

They battled against the wind as they slowly walked through the drifts. The first night, they had had to dig shelters in the snow. The four ‘big folk’, as Pippin had called them, had each held a hobbit to keep them warm through the night. Gimli had curled up next to the pony, the cold of his armour had startled a whicker and a snort from it, but it had calmed down. It was not the place to make his apology. In any case, they could hardly hear each other speak over the wind.

Caradhras was the mightiest peak of the Misty Mountains. Barazinbar they called the peak. Caradhras the cruel. 

Gimli called out, “Why are we walking this way, when beneath us lies the warmth of Moria?”

Gimli misliked the Mannish name, Moria; the black pit, but that was the least of his concerns as his stomach churned. 

Tharkûn had rejected the suggestion. 

“Tharkûn,” Gimli had tried again, “If we pass through the mines of Moria, my cousin Balin will give a royal welcome.”

As their eyes met, Gimli had seen real fear there. 

Here was yet another thing Gimli had not wished to confront, laid bare before him. 

Gimli wanted to show the Men that Dwarves were not the beggars and scroungers and tinkers they had gained a reputation as being. Petty Dwarves had forsaken the idea of Dwarrow settlements altogether, saying they were a draw for fell creatures with the hoarded wealth. Many Men thought Dwarves were little more than stunted vagabonds, all of them.

Indeed, the Shire knew Dwarves as hard-working labourers. Two Dwarves could do the same work as a team of hobbits, what with their endless breaks for meals, for a pipe, for a song. Gimli wanted to show the hobbits that Dwarves were more than just hard-working beasts of burden. Yes, skill went into the trinkets sold by tinkers and those like the Ur toymakers, but they were more than that. And the Elf. He wanted to dazzle them with the glory of the Dwarrowdelf. 

But the letters from Moria had stopped.

The events of the Battle of Azanulbizar had shown the peril surrounding Moria, but Balin had been insistent in his desire to resettle it. And for the first five years, they had received encouraging reports. Every few months, Glóin would receive a raven from his brother and once a year, Gimli would receive a parcel containing a new scarf from Ori, for his birthday. 

Then the trade wagons stopped returning. Gimli knew it was impossible for them to be self-sufficient in such a short time. They could not grow grain within Moria. Only a few slits of sunlight came through. They did not have enough to support crops and livestock. Even if in five years they had managed to silo enough grain to survive, they would not have all suddenly stopped -

Glóin had decided against consulting the Elves about this matter. There was probably a reasonable explanation for their silence. _Not that._ Another explanation.

As they trudged through the snow, Gimli heard Boromir say, “It is a strange thing that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing,” in reference to the Ring. Gimli could say the same about the coin, stowed safely in his boot. 

“Give the Ring to Frodo.” Aragorn’s voice of command rang clear.

After a pause came a forced laugh. “As you wish, I care not.” Even through the snow, the casual step seemed an affectation.

Even before Gimli had seen Bilbo’s red book, Gimli had known of the invisibility the Ring conferred. Nori had confronted Bilbo, and badgered him until he had revealed the secret of how he had escaped detection. Nori had shared this knowledge with Gimli as they had spoken of the Black Rider, who wished for knowledge of this ‘ _insignificant item_ ’. Gimli understood the dangers of wielding the Ring, as outlined in the Council, however he resolved to speak to Frodo, and direct him to use the Ring in extremis. If he died, or it ended up in the hand of another, and not a hobbit, all would be lost.

The conditions worsened.

“Farewell - I go to find the sun!” Legolas jested, as he walked on the surface of the Mahal cursed snow.

The joke went down like a Guild Master’s announcement of reduced pay for apprentices.

At the last craft fair his mother had visited, the head of the Smelting guild had approached her stand with her blown glass ornaments. He had spent a silent minute looking at them, then declared loudly that he was _‘off to look at some proper Dwarven craft.’_ Gimli imagined that the glare she had cast at his departing back was the same as the one Gimli and the others threw at the Elf prancing atop the snow.

Gimli could understand why Caradhras was called ‘the cruel’. Though the snow separated him from the rock at his feet, Gimli could feel the ill-intent towards them as they struggled to make their way across the peak.

Gimli was not overly familiar with snow, but he knew stone, and the unsettling feeling was becoming overwhelming. It reminded him of riding a pony prone to bucking and rearing and otherwise inclined to shedding its rider. It would grudgingly cooperate for a spell, then before one knew it, one was sprawled on the ground.

“There is a fell voice in the wind. We must turn back,” Legolas called, and then came the avalanche, from which Legolas shielded the hobbits with his own body.

Gimli had lived with retellings of the stories of the Stone Giants of the Misty Mountains. Now to live through something of the kind was altogether different from a tale, sitting warm at the fire with mead and friends. The violence of the cascading snow was terrifying, and even when they were all dug out, they all looked shaken.

The hobbits did not look a healthy colour.

As the Ringbearer, Frodo was allowed the decision. Looking at Gimli with trust, he agreed to travel via Moria. Finally Tharkûn conceded. “The mountain defeated us and we must risk a more dangerous road. Let us go through the mines of Moria.” 

They turned to retrace their steps and to find shelter in a cave they had passed on the way up.

The cave was a similar size to the bedroom he had in Rivendell. Gimli set to lighting several fires with the remaining firewood the pony carried. They would have no more, but the blue-lipped hobbits were not in a position to be worrying about tomorrow. 

Once they were within the embrace of Moria, Gimli would make his apology before all. He would vouch for the Elf if there were to be any difficulty in allowing him entry into that Dwarven realm. And when he had an opportunity to speak with Balin he would tell all he knew of king Thráin’s end, if he did not already know it. Balin had the authority to grant the title ‘Khuzdbâha’, Dwarf-friend, and he would take Gimli’s recommendation seriously. Tharkûn had earned it as part of the Company, and for his other deeds.

As Tharkûn, Aragorn, and Legolas attempted to arrange the tarpaulins across the mouth of the cave to keep out the worst of the wind, Boromir was removing the hobbits’ wet cloaks and looking through their packs for their spare changes of clothes. As he removed Merry’s jacket, Boromir responded to his protest saying, “Wet and cold, is a short way to dead from cold. We need you cold and dry at the very least.”

One of Gimli’s fires was dedicated to drying clothes and bedding. The canvas covering kept out only the harshest of gusts, but looking on the polished side of the matter, they would not suffocate. The fires did little to warm the air but sitting close to them the hobbits began to regain their colour. 

Gimli gathered snow from the mouth of the cave and set it to boil. To it he added dried meat, finely diced, and in a short time a warm broth was ready. He placed the cups in hobbit hands even as ‘the big folk’ chafed at the bare hobbit feet. 

Gimli had held back some pepper in his pack. This expensive spice was one of the few indulgences he had packed and he thought that once they were far from Rivendell and their supplies had dwindled, they might be forced to subsist on less palatable fare, such as the plants from the roadside which although nutritious, were bitter-tasting. Pepper would help the thin broth go down better, and now was as good a time as any for their spirits to be lifted.

The hobbits no longer looked so gravely ill, and Aragorn declared them to be, “The hardiest folk on Arda.”

Gimli took a discarded towel and set to unloading and rubbing down the pony. “By Mahal, you better not kick or bite me or - or.” He could not think of a threat. With Legolas, the creature seemed strangely intelligent and he dared not speak of glue-makers, or of sending it into the snow, for fear that it could understand. Gimli was becoming as daft as an Elf himself. 

The hobbits were now dry and settled, and huddled together for warmth, with Bill providing a break from the wind as they leaned against him.. 

As Boromir shucked off his own wet surcoat, he looked over at Gimli. “Fuck, you’re soaking wet!”

Under his armour, Gimli could feel the weight of his wet quilted layer. He hesitated. Surely he could relax the stricture against undressing before outsiders. He had done it more than once for the sake of a shag. But even as he wanted to, he could not bring himself to begin unfastening his clasps. 

Aragorn moved to the back of his cave, held out his cloak as a screen then turned his face away, and waited. The Man was still in wet clothes and was shivering, but waited for Gimli. Boromir stepped next to him, also holding out his cloak. With words of gratitude, Gimli quickly found dry clothing in his pack, and was soon dressed and wrapped in a nearly-dry blanket. 

He laid aside his armour. No enemies would reach them through the snow.

Legolas had stripped naked again, and Gimli could see movement as he changed, but he kept his eyes on his soup. The warmth which ran through him though was from neither the fire nor his drink. 

When he was dressed, Legolas seated himself in the space next to Gimli. He lay his bow and knives on the floor, beside Gimli’s axe.

His boot pressed gently against Gimli’s, and a tremor passed through Gimli to the depths of his fundament.

He couldn’t be thinking with his hammer. Not now. He tried to distract himself looking around the small cave.

Tharkûn was doing something with his staff, _why couldn’t he have dried them all with it?_ And Boromir and Aragorn had found dry clothing for themselves. They were finally all seated by the fire, leaning against the wall so that the wind could only get to them from the front. Tharkûn and Aragorn were positioned closest to the mouth of the cave, with Boromir and the hobbits at the back, their clothes drying on the boulders of the cave and their weapons at their feet. The fire was already dwindling and the light was fading. They would sleep here then move out at first light. Aragorn met Legolas’ eyes and spoke briefly in Elvish, ending with Legolas shaking his head. 

Legolas took out an ornate, mithril comb and set it down beside him.

The Elf drew in a breath, then unbraided his dark hair and began to comb.

Even with the draughts of the cave, Gimli could smell the fresh, loamy scent of Legolas. Gimli kept his eyes down, as he had not been invited to watch this private moment, but the sound as the silken strands were brushed with the mithril caused the hairs to stand up on his arms. He could not see what Legolas’ face looked like, but he wondered if that blush was on his cheeks. _Oh,_ Gimli would love to kneel up so he could lean across and take that ear tip into his mouth and hear that sound again. They could share warmth pressed up together, and with all the others in the cave with them, they would do nothing under the blankets. Gimli’s hands would not wander and explore, not with everyone here. Legolas would not dare to reach under his vest, to play with and flick at his piercings. He would not unlace - _Fuck’s sake_.

Gimli lay down on the unyielding stone and crossed his arms tightly and tried to find sleep, Aragorn’s breathing on his other side slowed into the rhythms of sleep, and as Gimli drifted, he could hear Legolas softly singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, let me know! If you didn't, let me know! Hearing which bits/lines you enjoyed helps me write more.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first planned out this story, I thought it would be a sprint, or at most a 400m dash. Now I realise it’s going to be a long, slow, rambling walk. Thank you to all the people who have been following and commenting from the beginning. If you’re saying to yourself ‘eh, that’s not what I signed up for’, there are absolutely no hard feelings if you need to dip out and don’t comment or read any more. It’s been great having you and thanks again. If you’re sticking around, brilliant! I hope you enjoy the rest of the story!
> 
> \- if some lines seem familiar they may be from a couple of stories now in my headcanon and I will mark them with an asterix * and mention them at the end. 
> 
> Aylwyyn, Cassunjey and de_la_cruz_87 made this story better. Thank you.

After he had wept, Gimli had been taciturn and buried deep within his thoughts. Legolas had not pressed him to speak. Instead, he passed the rest of their time in reverie as they lay concealed. Legolas had welcomed the chance, for once, not to be overwhelmed by new sensations; by the sights - the changing environment around him - as well as his companions, who were never still. 

Legolas had never seen anyone cry the way Gimli had, and it left him shaken. He had seen tears before. When Pippin had cried, Legolas understood it immediately to have been born of instinctual terror. Father's tears of relief when Legolas returned from Dale had stirred guilt. And Legolas had witnessed grief at death before; Galion’s tears for his sister’s son had been anguished. But Gimli - in those silent shaking sobs, there was such a depth of sorrow that it took great restraint for Legolas to not break cover. His instinct had been to move across, to close the small distance between them, and put his arms around Gimli and soothe his tears. 

But Legolas felt unsteady on this new terrain now coming into bud. He did not wish to crush any new growth with clumsy steps. 

As they set out that evening, Gimli did not walk beside him, and Legolas would not press Gimli to speak. Legolas would not apply pressure, even though the time available to them, so little to begin with, was rushing past like a stiff breeze.

A chill settled in his belly. Perhaps Gimli wanted to draw a line under this. Gimli understood Dale now, but mayhap wished to forget that there had ever been something other than animosity between them. If that was what Gimli wished, there was nothing Legolas could do. 

He steeled himself and walked with purpose. 

Then, as they walked that evening, a surge of joy had leapt up within him. The holly bushes cried out in protest at their rough and discourteous treatment from Gimli. Even so, Legolas’ heart danced at the offer of the berries, and Legolas accepted them in the spirit in which they were intended.

Their night walk progressed and Legolas was worried for the hobbits. Merry and Pippin no longer made sport of their flatulence. The plump, rosy cheeks they had had in Imladris were now gone, and there was something hollow in Frodo’s face which frightened Legolas. The snow deepened as they ascended Caradhras. That night, they dug shelters in the snow and Legolas had held Frodo close, for warmth. There was something amiss with the Song here. The faint music of it felt distorted and _wrong_ somehow. 

As they set out in the morning, after a few hours of rest, the white expanse which greeted them caused Legolas to gasp. It snowed at home, but not this much. Legolas wanted to play in it, delighted by the novelty. He had never seen such a great quantity before, but the struggles of his companions as they tried to make their way through sobered him. 

The disquiet intensified when Frodo dropped the ring. Legolas could not hear his words to Boromir, but he saw Estel’s hand grip the hilt of his sword. 

As they struggled up Caradhras, Legolas thought to lighten the mood with a jest. 

“Farewell – I go to find the sun!” He was met with a blank silence, colder even than the bleak landscape that surrounded them. 

Normally, both at home in the forest, and even with this group, his little quips found a receptive audience. Legolas paused to take in the situation fully. He could see his friends - yes, they were now friends - battling the snow as it hemmed them in, the hobbits were having to be carried. Poor Gimli was almost completely buried. This was not an instance where such humour was welcome. He had been thoughtless.

Estel held Merry and Frodo. Boromir held Pippin, and Sam was clinging to the pony’s back as they tried to make headway through the worsening wind and snow. They had suggested that Gimli should ride the pony, but he had said that in full armour he was too heavy for the fully laden creature. 

“I will walk behind the pony, in the path it makes,” Gimli had said. “Each step, I will pray to Mahal that it does not brain me.” 

It was almost funny to see the top of his helm barely visible above the snow. But the misery on Gimli’s face, and the transformation of his snow-encrusted beard leeched all humour from the situation. Covered in snow, Legolas wondered if this is what he would look like when he was old. A white beard, maybe with some red still showing through.

When the snow had come cascading down the mountainside, Legolas had shielded Frodo - not because he cared for him more than the others, but because in his role as Ringbearer, he was crucial. Mithrandir nodded at him, his very eyebrows covered in ice and snow. And something warm rose in Legolas’ chest at that silent praise. 

The impasse at Caradhras left them in a quandary. Despite the weeks of planning, there were still arguments over the route. Now the Redhorn pass had failed, and at Gimli’s suggestion, they were to turn back and travel through the Mines of Moria. 

Legolas did not know how to feel about this. He was not afraid of Gimli, but he had been told so much about Dwarves that was bad, there must be some truth to it. Perhaps Gimli was the exception. 

Legolas had protected the hobbits from physical hurt as much as he could, but when Boromir said of the cold, _‘this will be the death of the hobbits_ ’, a shock had chimed through him.

Truly, the hobbits could lose their lives from such a thing as cold? The hobbits looked grey, and were shivering uncontrollably. Was it so easy for mortals to die? Legolas had been frantic as he chafed at the hobbits’ strange feet, trying to bring back a semblance of warmth and life. So much outside of the Woodland Realm continued to confound him and how little control the mortals had over their bodies was terrifying. 

The hobbits’ hands had trembled too much to open their packs, even if they had been able to walk to them, so Legolas had tried to help. He unfastened their blankets, but they were cold and wet, and would do little good. 

Legolas always found their little ears so cute and amusing. But now Estel was speaking of ‘frostbite’ and how they could lose the tips of their extremities to cold. Even as they warmed their hands on their cups, Legolas warmed his own hands and pressed them against the hobbits’ ears in turn. Eventually Estel reassured him with a gentle smile that they would be spared that horror, of losing an ear.

In Rivendell, he had not once combed or braided beyond the privacy of his room. Only his family and those close to him had ever seen him unbound. But he had thought about this; he did not feel the need to shield himself. He felt able to come unbound in the midst of the Fellowship.

So, that night in the cave, he did not take up Estel’s offer of privacy to comb. He was among friends, so there was no need. 

They had faced perils together, they had spoken of their deepest selves. They felt as much his friends as those from his forest. In a way, even moreso. Though he had not known them for hundreds of years, apart from Mithrandir, he felt they knew him in a way those who knew only ‘Little Leaf’ could not. And Mithrandir; seeing him away from the Sindar court was like seeing a tree through the different seasons, seeing its changes. He was a being of power, but there was also something - softer, gentler even, that he had not imagined before. Legolas’ connection with Boromir had also deepened. And Gimli. There was something discomfiting about thinking of Gimli. But he now counted all the Fellowship as friends. 

Even so, Legolas’ hands trembled as he loosened his hair, and he felt so exposed with his hair unbound, here in front of everyone. Every part of his skin felt alight. The movement of his own hair against his ear sent a thrill down his back. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore Gimli’s heady musk. It was not unpleasant, even after so long away from the baths. Legolas felt the warmth pooling. Gimli had smelled like this in Dale, when he had been pressed close against him - pressed _there_ and holding him - 

Legolas focused on _calm_.

Mithrandir was keeping watch, and if he heard Legolas breathing like this, he would come to investigate what was wrong.

He sang softly a Silvan song of comfort, prayed for the deliverance of the mortals, then Legolas slipped into reverie.

Even in this small space, Gimli woke early, put on his armour and practiced his ‘forms’. There was no space to swing and twirl his axe in the cave, so he seemed to be executing various grappling stances. Legolas watched transfixed.

In the morning, as they ate more soup, Legolas remembered how the Dwarven prisoners had fallen upon the food offered to them after they were first captured in his forest. Legolas had later come to understand they had been starving, but the feral tearing at the food had discomfited him. What if they _were_ the unreasonable creatures they had been painted as, all throughout his life? What if _Legolas_ _himself_ were to be taken prisoner in Moria? Should he conceal his identity? No, he was Thranduilion and would face whatever consequences that brought.

As if sensing his thoughts Estel spoke.

“Gimli, will your cousin give leave for Thranduillion to enter a Dwarven realm? There is a dispute still unresolved between Erebor and - your realm.” Estel gestured towards Legolas. and spoke as a diplomat, foreseeing a hurdle and hoping to address it in advance.

The hobbits turned questioning eyes to Legolas.

“The White Gems of Lasgalen; King Thror did not return them,” Legolas explained. “It is one of the reasons that father marched on Erebor eighty years ago; to wage war to retrieve them.” In a smaller voice he added. “They were my mother’s.”

Legolas did not like to dredge up the bitter histories of their peoples, but he understood the diplomatic necessity of preparing the way. He had felt relief when Gimli said he did not hold Legolas’ parentage against him. Even if the Dwarves of Moria felt displeasure at the circumstances of his birth, there was nothing to be done about it. He hoped only that he and Gimli could continue in their journey without it becoming a point of contention between the two of them. But there was no reason to think other Dwarves would receive him with similar equanimity.

Gimli spoke in a jovial tone, which seemed forced and glossed over the matter. “Of course he will let the lad in. And, after we’re done with this business,” he nodded at Frodo, “Legolas and his mother can pay us a visit in Erebor, and we’ll send them home with the gems.”

Legolas saw the incredulous looks, and Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but Legolas interrupted.

“She - she is no longer in Middle-earth.”

“Oh. I’m sorry lad. I didna mean -” Gimli looked chagrined. 

Pippin whispered into the awkward silence. “How did she die?”

“Oh, she’s not dead, she sailed.”

“She just left you!” blurted out Pippin. 

Mithrandir interjected; “She was in great pain, and needed the healing only Valinor could provide.* Legolas will join her one day.”

Gimli fumbled as he secured his throwing-axes. 

Legolas was Silvan, and they rarely heard the call of the sea, so tied were they to Arda that he doubted it would be for many thousands of years. But he remained silent and was happy for the group to begin walking and lose that thread of conversation.

The amount of snow around them was decreasing steadily and it was easier for the others to walk now. Legolas walked behind Gimli and watched his unsure steps gain confidence as his feet connected with the stone.

As they were to soon be surrounded by Dwarves, he thought he should understand a little more of their customs. Legolas moved to walk beside Gimli.

“Gimli, is it a custom of your people to stab a knife into a table or through a door?”

Gimli laughed softly. “No, lad.”

Legolas was still puzzled. “Then in Dale, on the table, and in - the room -” He felt his cheeks warm. “Why did you do so? You did not do so in Rivendell.”

“I told you; I thought you were in danger.”

Legolas nodded, but it still did not explain so he gestured for him to continue.

Gimli cleared his throat. “It was to show that you - were mine. Under my protection.”

 _Oh_. Legolas felt - he did not know how he felt. He was a warrior, he could protect himself, but there was something in the idea that was compelling. 

“Did that frighten you?” Gimli asked.

“No,” Legolas shook his head. “It was you.”

Legolas hoped that explained everything. But Gimli appeared uncertain.

Legolas looked at him. “I trusted you. With you I felt safe.”

Gimli’s mouth made a silent, “Oh.”

Again, they fell into conversation as they walked. There was a new sensation of freedom between them.

Legolas spoke of his home. Even though Gimli said he did not hold his father against him, Legolas avoided mention of him. But father and Opherion were so similar in temperament that in many ways, he might as well have been speaking of the Elvenking when he told anecdotes involving Opherion.

Legolas wondered if all Dwarves were this fascinating. He had not spent enough time with one before to know. This pull he felt towards Gimli he did not feel towards the others in the group, though he was also unfamiliar with their lives and customs. If it was simple curiosity, surely he should feel this way about all the others.

Gimli tugged on his braid, then spoke as if he had been holding back, but could do so no longer. “Legolas, all that prancing about on the snow. How did you do that?”

How could one answer such a thing. It was like asking, how does one breathe, or how does one see. He tried for the best explanation he could manage. “I did not wish to sink and the snow agreed to bear me.”

Though Gimli did not seem fully satisfied with this answer, there was nothing more Legolas could add.

Legolas had another question of his own. “Sometimes I see you piling stones on top of one another, then putting them back down. Why is that?”

Gimli’s features looked troubled and he did not reply for a few moments. Legolas began to think he would not reply at all when Gimli spoke.

“They are to get Mahal’s attention. If one stone lands on top of another, that could be an accident. But three. That signals intent. So we can try to get Mahal’s attention and say what we need to say. I then take them down as we are on the road, but you might see many small towers of stacked rocks in Moria. Do not disturb them.”

Like this they spoke and walked. It felt like Gimli genuinely wanted to get to know him, and he felt _seen._

That evening they set up camp. They would reach Moria the next day.

Legolas had not wished to pressure Gimli, but the more he thought about it, the less he wished to have the talk in Hollin as the last open discussion they had regarding the state of their interaction. He did not want to be uncertain, in a Dwarven kingdom, about how Gimli saw him. Gimli’s actions were tender and caring but he had said nothing.

As Mithrandir kept watch, in Silvan, Legolas asked if he could move to the far side. “Gimli and I need to speak in private,” he added in Westron.

On silent hobbit feet Pippin had crept next to them. “First he wouldn’t look at you, but now, Gimli won’t stop staring. You probably should sit down and talk. But you’ve been talking all day though, what do you need to talk about now?” 

None too gently Pippin found himself being led back to the others by Mithrandir.

When he got upset, Legolas began to lose his Westron, and the last thing he could stand was for Gimli to laugh at him for that. But he no longer felt worried about that. 

Gimli had already entered his bed roll when Legolas gently touched his shoulder. Gimli looked at him as if he had never seen his face before. Quietly, he acquiesced to Legolas’ request to come slightly away from the others. Another Elf could overhear them, but not these mortal ears.

Gimli removed his gloves and hooked them to his belt as he stood. Legolas sat on a boulder and in this way they were of a height. Gimli looked into Legolas’ eyes.

Before Legolas could begin to speak the words he had planned, Gimli took a deep breath and held up a broad hand.

“Lad, I wanted to wait until we were in the halls of my people, and to speak before all those assembled - and I still will. And there is something of which I will speak to you after I speak with my uncle, my cousin and Ori. But first, I need to apologise - Legolas.”

Like a vine winding upwards towards the sunlight, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts to find the clearest path. 

Gimli continued. “I have tormented you, since Rivendell, all throughout our journey. I allowed the ancient feuds between our peoples to feed into my thinking the worst of you. I nursed on my father’s prejudices, and fed my ill-feeling towards you. You showed great restraint, and I thank you for that. I am thankful that you did not add your own fuel to the fire of my anger.”

“At first I did not understand why you were so angry, Gimli. I thought it was because of who my father was. And for that anger I did not blame you.” 

Gimli startled slightly, then his eyes showed understanding. 

“I thank you for your generous compassion. But I can not so easily forgive myself. When I think even of my manners. -” Gimli sighed. “I thought I was detached and objective, but I was filled with bitterness. I was too stubborn and stiff-necked to search for the truth though it was before me. I have been stupid and I have acted like a dwarrowling. Legolas, I am sorry for how I treated you.” Again he said. “You showed great restraint.” He paused and tugged on his braid, then continued. “Had our positions been reversed, I would have raged and railed.”

Legolas said, “Maybe it would have been better if I had. The misunderstanding would not have had the chance to fester.”

“I would not let you speak. Legolas, I even thought you might have followed me from Erebor. I was not in a mind to listen to you.” 

Legolas’ face must have shown surprise, for Gimli hastened to clarify “ - I know you did not.”

Legolas wanted to say, _‘If there is anything of the feeling you had for me in Dale remaining, tell me. I am drawn to you, that is unchanged.’_ But it was more than just the physical. If there was to be anything of substance between them, they needed to rectify what had gone wrong and to do it in the proper Silvan way. 

When Legolas said he wished to share the customs of his people in repairing a fractured relationship, Gimli said, “I will do all that you ask, lad. Only please can you wait until Moria. I want to - you will see.”

Legolas acquiesced. After all, the most important part of regrowing a relationship was that it could not be forced. For a few minutes, they sat together, then Gimli returned to his bedroll.

When they woke the next morning, after more warm soup as breakfast, Mithrandir turned to face the hobbits.

“Happy birthday, Merry.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Pippin. “All the days blend together. I did not realise it was already here. I would have said something! I know you wanted to bring something to give us from Rivendell, but Gandalf went through our bags, taking out everything fun.” He went to put away his cup, and as he walked he pulled a face at Mithrandir’s back.

“I would warn you against your face staying like that,” Mithrandir said, “But I daresay it would be an improvement.”

Pippin laughed.

Mithrandir took from a pocket of his robes a small object wrapped in waxed paper. He uncovered it to reveal a piece of fruitcake. 

“The kitchens in Rivendell were obliging and I thought this might cheer you, this many weeks into our journey.”

Mithrandir handed it over and Merry looked ready to take a big bite, then looked around. He laid it out and took his small ‘sword’ and prepared to cut the cake into smaller segments. 

Mithrandir looked taken aback, then he patted Merry’s shoulder. “You are very kind to share, and I know it is the hobbit custom to give gifts on one's birthday, but don’t add me to the count. I do not have much of a sweet tooth.”

“Nor me.” Frodo declared.

Looking at the cake then at Frodo, Sam seemed to decide something.“Oh, I’m not so fond of fruit cake, Mister Merry.” 

Aragorn and Boromir quickly added their own rejoinders that they were not that fond of fruit cake either.

“Oh, laddie. Raisins don’t sit well with a Dwarf’s digestion. Don’t figure a piece for me in your calculations.”

“Oh, I like raisins -” Legolas began, then at Mithrandir’s raised brow he looked around. _Oh, they were pretending so Merry would get more, he realised._ Legolas qualified his statement, saying, “But not in cake.”

The others looked amused, and were smiling at Legolas - he was not sure why. Legolas filled the silence. “We do not celebrate the date of my conception every year.” 

Pippin choked on his piece of cake. 

Legolas continued, not quite sure what he had said wrong. “It would be too frequent to celebrate every year, but when we do celebrate, we roast a whole buck, and -” at the tiny shake of Mithrandir’s head Legolas stopped speaking. 

Gimli turned his head sharply to look at Legolas. When he spoke he sounded panicked, “I know you’re older than us all, apart from Gandalf, but among your _own_ people you are of age?”

Legolas heard Estel mutter to himself, “A little late to be asking that.”

“Of course, I am of age and have reached full maturity.” ‘ _I am just coddled’,_ Legolas added to himself. “Would one not of age be here?” 

The others turned to look at Pippin.

“Oh! I knew it not,” said Legolas. He still was unsure about mortal ages.

“And how old are you Merry?” 

When he responded that he was thirty-six, Legolas had supplied that he was more than ten times that. 

No one had a response to that, and Mithrandir spoke as they made ready to walk that day.

“I remember when I first met you, Merry. I believe it was at Pippin’s fifth birthday celebration. He appeared to have bathed in cake.” Turning to Pippin, he continued. “Master Took, you did not hesitate to embrace me when I bent down to greet you, covering my beard and robes in frosting. You then promptly asked me to turn your older sister, Pervinca, into ‘something unnatural, like a frog’.”*

Pippin laughed. “‘Vinca seems to have done a good job turning herself into something beastly without your help, Gandalf.”

Sam grinned. “I reckon Mister Merry don’t think she’s all that bad.”

Merry flicked a stick at Sam. “Speaking of people who _‘aren’t all that bad’_ ; ‘Rosies are red…’”

Sam turned the very same colour, and Frodo laughed and stepped in between them. “Let’s just say that _everyone_ we’ve left in the Shire is lovely, and we can’t wait to see them all again.” He and Sam exchanged a smile. 

“Except Great Aunt Lobelia,” qualified Pippin. 

The other hobbits nodded in silent agreement. 

*

As Mithrandir led them towards Moria they were no longer walking over snow, and though there were a few plants again, woodsong had not returned and there was a sterile silence to the place. 

Again he walked with Gimli and they spoke of heavier topics. Perhaps that was the cause of the dark feeling inside him as they walked towards the Dwarven realm.

As they approached, in the far distance a large pool of water came into view.

“Do you like swimming, Gimli?” Merry asked, “When it’s warmer, I mean. Me, I’m like a fish. Other hobbits don’t swim, but Brandybucks have always lived by the water and had boats.”

“Dwarves can’t swim. Made of stone, you see. Sink right to the bottom.”

Mithrandir huffed a puff of laughter, and the smoke ring he was blowing ended up twisted and distorted.

“Gimli,” said Frodo with a smile. “Don’t make us look silly in Moria when we repeat the things you tell us about Dwarves.”

“Don’t you worry about that, lad. You’ll hardly be able to get a word in edgewise, what with all the singing and feasting and dancing.”

Frodo's face was still as he looked at the pool in the distance.. 

“What ails you?” asked Boromir.

“He don’t like deep water,” Sam responded quietly.

“My parents both drowned when I was a fauntling.”

The beats of silence were sober. 

“I know what it is to lose a mother, and at a young age. The pain is - And to lose a father also.” Boromir gripped Frodo’s arm in a soldier’s embrace, and the sympathy was clear in his eyes.

“They would have been proud of you,” said Mithrandir, with real sorrow.

As they approached the gates of Moria the feeling of wrongness grew in Legolas. The Song was _wrong_ here. 

“I do not like it here.”

Legolas could sense the mind of a creature here unlike the fauna he had encountered along the way. There was something dark and closed off about it. Maybe it was in the water - he could not tell - but wherever it was it was dormant.

The novelty of water safe enough to swim in had not worn off for Legolas. Both the Forest River and the Enchanted Rivers were not safe. They could swim only when they journeyed to the River Running, as it flowed outside of Mirkwood, and this was where he had learned to swim. As they had travelled, all apart from Estel and Mithrandir had seemed disconcerted when he tried to swim, but here outside Moria this body of water did not look inviting. Maybe it was because this was a Dwarvien place, that he did not feel welcome. Maybe the very stones here remembered tales of Dwarves murdering Elves.

Legolas wanted to run from this place. He wanted to run home into father’s arms. Run back to Imladris, even back to the snow. His eyes roved over the faces of his companions. _Does no one else feel this?_ Mithrandir was discomposed, and Legolas knew Boromir had wanted to take the pass of Rohan, and he could read the reluctance to be here in his face. Legolas would need to gird up his loins and stand firm.

He was Thranduilion and he could do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *for the life of me, I can’t remember which fic it was, but in this AU the hobbits have daemons, a la ‘His Dark Materials’ and young Pippin is covered in something sticky and asks Gandalf to turn his sister into a frog. [Update: the fic is Sticky Fingers by Kathkin]
> 
> *Sailing after a spider bite is headcanon from Roselightfairy’s Finding a Voice series, [Edit - my mind created a mash up of what happened to Legolas' mother, and what happened to an OC in that fic] (changed from where Legolas' mother died in canon).
> 
> I see all your funny and witty usernames and make up stories in my head about how you came up with them, lol. Thank you all for reading, for the kudos and feedback. 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have back to back Gimli chapters coming up - he has a lot to say about Moria! I hope you enjoy it, and thanks once again to Aylwyyn, Cassunjey and de_la_cruz87 for helping me to keep putting up new chapters.
> 
> I have a Christmas day outtake chapter - it's crack. I'm not sure if there will be a normal Saturday chapter on Boxing Day. If it's not up that weekend it will be next Saturday.

When morning came, the mood in the cave was sombre. Pippin said he wanted to go back to Rivendell. Gimli could see they all did. But as Tharkûn said, if they returned, they would only be waiting for the inevitable. For the Enemy to seek out the Ring, to overpower Rivendell’s defences then eventually overrun all their lands. 

They were all going to Moria whether they liked it or not.

Gimli did not have the true firetouch, but with the remains of the ash and cinders he managed to light a small fire to warm the remaining soup for their breakfast. Soon they would be feasting in Moria, and replenishing their supplies. They would no longer have to eat like this. 

Gimli wondered if the others’ teeth would be able to handle Dwarf bread. And some of the food might be too spicy for them. But there was always a selection of dishes, so they would not go hungry if they preferred plainer fare. Gimli hoped that they would try everything at least once.

Gimli suppressed the disconcerting thoughts threatening to rise to the surface. Like when setting an imperfect gem, he placed the flawed side downwards.

All would be well. They would welcome them all with feasting. They would let Legolas in. They had to. It would be alright.

 _Moria_ \- _‘a name of ill omen’_ Boromir had called it. 

Aragorn said he had once passed the Dimrill Gate of Moria when he was young. He said quietly, “The memory of it is very evil.” 

Gimli relied on bluster to press forward. If only they could see Moria in its splendour, its majesty would quiet them. 

Gimli knew he had no right to be promising the gems to Legolas, but he could not stop talking. If he stopped, they would ask questions he himself had not wanted to ask. And he _would_ make good his promise. If King Dain could not be persuaded with reason, Gimli would still get the gems to the Elf. When he returned to Erebor victorious, Gimli would have the right to ask for a boon, and he would ask for this. Gimli tried to keep the uncertainty out of his voice as he spoke.

Then Gimli put his foot in it. Poor Elf - growing up without a mother. Gimli did not even want to think about how he would have got on without his amad. 

Tharkûn might as well have used Gimli’s head as an anvil when he spoke of Legolas sailing. Gimli had known that Elves sailed away, to fuck knows where, never to return - but he had never thought of that in connection to Legolas, somehow. Maybe, as soon as the Ring was destroyed, Legolas would hop onto a boat and bugger off. Something tugged at Gimli. He had grown - used - to the Elf. 

He roused himself from his thoughts and prepared to leave the cave and walk on towards Moria.

That day he walked with Legolas and the Elf chattered with him in the same way he did with the hobbits. Gimli felt as if he were holding a fragile and precious glass sculpture in his hands. As Legolas spoke of his family, Gimli smiled. He had somehow imagined that the Elves of Mirkwood sat around, plotting and engineering nefarious plans, laughing evil laughs during breaks from being haughty and supercilious and arching their eyebrows at people. But from Legolas’ stories they seemed so normal, and ordinary and _nice._ And they were all obviously so fond of Legolas.

The Elf did not mention his father at all. Ever. Perhaps they had a fraught relationship. Gimli did not wish to misstep as he had when speaking of Legolas’ mother, so he refrained from asking.

They had spoken all day, and it was so easy. It was as if he was speaking to one he had known for years, except he knew so little about Legolas, and his people and their ways. 

Gimli wanted to know more. 

Gimli felt hypocritical in his hesitation to speak of Dwarven secrets, of how they summoned Mahal with votive stones. He had debated whether or not to answer the Elf’s question, but Gimli supposed Legolas had as much right as any to know how to call on any of the Valar.

Legolas spoke of how he had given a robin a tiny gem, “Because it was the same colour as his redbreast.” Legolas laughed at the recollection. Then Legolas spoke of when he had shown them all where a kit and her cubs were curled up, hidden in the dappled sunlight. “It was a gift for not having been of more help at the beginning.”

_Mahal’s gold tooth_

Realisation dawned. Some of Legolas’ gifts had not been mere whimsy; some were gifts of guilt, of apology, of conciliation. 

“Legolas,” asked Gimli, “Tell me of the gifts I did not thank you for.”

Legolas began a recital of sticks and stones and leaves. He spoke of how he sent over the fresh scent of pine trees on the wind. Could this Elf control the wind? But Gimli did not wish to change the topic, and spoke of the unacknowledged and discarded ‘gifts’. 

“I did not realise,” Gimli said softly. Here was yet another thing for him to apologise for. They should reach Moria tomorrow, or maybe the next day, depending on how quickly the hobbits could walk. It might take a few hours for a feast to be prepared, and for rooms befitting the stature of the guests to be made ready. But Gimli would make the most of that time to offer the fullest of apologies, if waiting until the feast would be too long a delay. 

Gimli sighed.

Sam spoke shyly to Gimli as he helped lay out the bedrolls. 

“My Gaffer says too much sighing will curdle the milk -” he began to stammer, “-but we don’t have any here - and it is not my place to say.”

Gimli smiled at him.

“Before, you were a bit -” Sam hesitated.

Gimli grinned, “I believe the technical term is ‘right pig-headed’.”

Sam returned his smile. “I didn’t like to get involved - with the affairs of my betters, but I’m glad it’s not so thundery around you both now.”

Gimli did not like all this talk of ‘betters’. It reminded him of the Men who would speak down to his mother as she took in their laundry and mending. But he would not chide the hobbit. They were going to Moria! He did not want to sour the mood with chastisement.

Sam was right, though. It was no longer ‘thundery’ between Gimli and the Elf. Legolas. What did he see? Gimli still saw an Elf, but he did not see a cunning creature, or a silly one, but rather a sweet one. Well, sometimes he was silly, but he also had the discipline that was in all warriors. He had that hardness that was in all warriors, in those who had the power to mete out death and understood that burden. The shadow that dwelt in the eyes of those who had dealt death was also in Legolas. He was not a child, but he was often childlike in his wonder.

That sense of wonderment flowed through everything. He looked around as if he had never seen things before. Even the open sky drew his attention and he would laugh at the sight of it sometimes. It was that same curiosity he had had in his gaze in Dale. And the questions he asked Boromir. _‘Do you feel cold all the time or just in the snow?’;' How old were you when you learnt to read, to walk, to talk?’_ Legolas did not seem to know of much outside his own lands. 

When Sam had spoken of missing the taste of potatoes, Legolas had foraged a few small wild ones, then checked with Aragorn that they would be safe for the hobbits. Sam had seemed surprised at the sight of them. “These are not like Shire potatoes!”

Legolas had responded that one could eat these with the skin, or even without cooking. 

Sam had been indignant. “I’ll not have anyone say that Sam Gamgee gave them a raw, muddy potato for their tea!” Legolas had laughed and had used his own mithril knife to peel and dice the wild potatoes for Sam. None of the others would treat their weapon thus. However, being forged of Mithril, Legolas’ weapon would not dull from improper use.

This was yet another instance of care for the hobbits. A sceptical part of Gimli’s mind was keeping a tally, as if to refute arguments that the Elf was as bad as he had grown up hearing Elves were. Gimli recalled seeing Legolas shielding Frodo from the tender mercies of Caradhras with his own slight body. Once again, Gimli reassured himself that if the Elf’s aim had been to steal the Ring, that would have been the perfect opportunity. They could not have given chase, encumbered as they all were from the snow. He would not even have had to hurt any of them; they were all snowbound. All apart from Legolas, who like a sunbeam danced on its white surface. Gimli had had to ask for an explanation for this ability, but the answer he had been given made little sense.

After a day of walking and talking with Legolas, Gimli’s thoughts were full of him, and this was a welcome distraction from thinking about Moria. 

Nevertheless, his thoughts of Legolas were wrapped up in Moria.

Gimli had heard stories of the grand central baths of Moria, that there was a warm waterfall, with the water heated by the forges. Legolas would love that. The Dwarves would not normally permit outsiders to use the baths, but some accommodation could be made. The Men and the hobbits would also enjoy them. Gimli would wish to see his smile. Their smiles. But it would be better if Gimli did not immediately breach protocol by visiting the baths with outsiders. Even if Gimli remained dressed, all it would do would cause whispers if he went into the baths with the Fellowship. Gimli did not usually give an Orc’s dried shit about whispers about him, but he did not want to create any difficulties for his companions.

Gimli would need to ensure they were all given rooms that fit their status and that there was no breach of protocol and that the splendour of the rooms reflected the high social-standing of the guests. And Gimli would reassure the steward that putting the hobbits in a room together would not be a slight, but rather, a kindness.

Gimli put his hand over the place the badly-drawn tattoo still lay on his shoulder, after all these years. Gimli would want to stay up to talk with Ori. Ori would laugh when he saw that Gimli had brought the scarf all this way. They had so much to catch up on, and Gimli would not even be angry when he explained his silence. But after a few ales, Ori could never stay awake.

Something in Gimli did not like the idea of the Elf being away from him after all these weeks together. Gimli was used to having him close.

Perhaps Gimli would go into the room assigned to Legolas, to check that he was alright, Under the Mountain. 

Not every Dwarf there would be happy to see Thranduilion in Moria. Despite the official welcome, there would be disgruntled elements. 

If Gimli could, he would have asked for Legolas to be named Dwarf-friend also. If Thorin’s company had not been released from Thranduil’s cells - if they had missed the window of opportunity by even a day, they would still be eking out a living as itinerant wanderers. They would not have been able to reclaim Erebor, unless the attempt was made once more, in however many years or decades the moon was in the correct alignment to open Erebor’s secret door. Without Erebor’s prosperity, the Khazad would not have then had the resources to reclaim Moria. Indirectly they owed their presence there to Legolas.

But Legolas had stated that he did not wish it publicly known he had defied his father in releasing the prisoners. It would undermine his father. Gimli would take Balin, Ori and Óin aside, and only the Company would know of the Life Debt. Gimli would reveal to the members of the Company alone that Legolas was the ‘unknown agent of Mahal’. Óin, Ori and Balin would need time to process the news, but they were all sensible and would probably not react as Glóin had. He hoped.

Without this additional knowledge, the general populace of Moria would see little reason to be kindly inclined towards Thranduilion. True he had fought against the Orcs in the battle of Five Armies, but it did not take a scholar of statecraft to tell that self-interest was a leading factor in the Elves not wanting an Orcish stronghold on their doorstep if the Dwarves succumbed; it had not been done out of love for the Khazad. The ordinary Dwarf would see little reason for indulging Legolas’ presence in the Dwarrowdelf.

Maybe like in Dale, Gimli would go to his room to keep him safe, but this time it would be in earnest.

Gimli’s thoughts wandered. Despite Dís’ criticism, Gimli did not think with his cock. But all the same, he was a healthy Dwarf, in the prime of life, and he had not relieved _tension_ since they had left Rivendell. 

As he drifted off to sleep, Gimli’s mind found its own path. He clenched his fists so that his hands would not act on his own imaginings. Maybe, after the feast, Gimli would find someone up for a round.

Gimli’s thoughts strayed to what Legolas might enjoy abed. But Gimli still did not understand why everyone said _‘Elves don’t fuck’_ . And Gimli could hardly ask that. He did not even dare ask if the Elf could control the wind. Gimli could not ask, _‘why do all say ‘Elves don’t fuck’?’_ Not now, while things were still newly reforged between them. They would be travelling together and had just found this new balance. They would not disrupt that by asking something so suggestive, or even worse, following his prick. 

He would find a chair in Legolas’ room and keep watch. 

Or - maybe like in Dale, Legolas would allow Gimli into the bed with him. 

If Legolas was awake, they could sit in the dark and smoke and talk. 

Maybe they could hold and be held.

Legolas would not want to touch him, not Under a Mountain. 

The Elf probably enjoyed making love laid out on the grass, under the stars. He had heard that Elves rutted in trees. Gimli wondered - if they were to go out together in the starlight - would that put Legolas at ease? Gimli would lay down beside him, and cover him with kisses. Kisses as soft and sweet as the Elf.

Gimli wondered in what ways he could please Legolas - would he enjoy Gimli giving of the cavern of his mouth?* Would he moan or would he whimper? Or just pant in silent bliss?

Gimli turned over in his bedroll.

There in the bed, or on the grass, or in a tree, what would he taste like? Would he pull at Gimli’s hair? Would he touch his beard again or had his curiosity been sated?

Gimli stirred, but he would not touch himself. He felt warm, despite the chill night air.

Gimli wanted his own hands in that dark hair, unbound, caressing those strangely lovely ears. Gimli had heard that their cocks were green, because of their connection to nature. He did not know if this was true. Even if it were, Gimli did not think he would mind. Gimli would run his hands over him - this time they would be skin-to-skin as they pressed together.

Gimli breathed out slowly. His mouth was dry as he tried to swallow.

Did Legolas like thruz* Gimli wondered? Did he prefer to ride or to be ridden? They could try different angles until Gimli positioned himself to hit Legolas’ hrakna* with every thrust. Would Legolas shout out or bite his lip and stifle his cries as he took his pleasure? Maybe Elves were not like Men and Dwarves in this way, maybe he did not have that spot which could make a person come undone. If so they would find another way to bring him to his peak, then unravel him.

Gimli felt a hand on his shoulder and startled as he saw Legolas, as if Gimli’s thoughts had drawn him near.

 _Fuck_

Had Legolas somehow known what he was thinking?

Did he want to climb into his bedroll with him?

_Oh Mahal._

Then Legolas said, “We need to talk.”

And Gimli returned to his senses.

Gimli felt the full awareness of how they had left things unspoken since Hollin and knew he owed Legolas some clarity. Just as Legolas had done now, Gimli himself could have sought out privacy to speak. Gimli had been avoiding the topic of an apology because he wanted it done properly, but he knew it was not fair to leave him wondering. 

Before Legolas could speak. Gimli made it plain how it stood, and gave a brief apology. He would give his full apology in Moria.

When they got there, Gimli would change into his fine tunic after a bath. Yes. He would bathe, and freshly braided, he would wear his Durin blue - steamed and pressed. Gimli would ask for the main forge bell to be rung in honour of the nobility of Middle-earth in attendance; from the Shire, Gondor and Mirkwood. He would not specify Mirkwood.

Gimli was usually skilled at oratory, but to frame his words in clever rhetorical devices felt too insincere. Gimli would prepare a general framework, but would speak from the heart, not using prepared words. He would go down on one knee before them all, a gesture of deep humility which the gathered Dwarves would understand. In private, Gimli would speak to his family. Ori did not share his blood, but the Company was family. Gimli would speak of the Life Debt and of what they owed to Legolas. He would draw Balin aside and speak of what honour was due to Tharkûn. Balin could then make his own determination. 

Only the dead knew the truth and once they were all in the Halls of Waiting, they would find out whether Tharkûn slew King Thror. But for now, they needed only to honour him for what he had done for the Khazad, for the Company. Dwarf-friend they would name him.

As he spoke with Legolas, and Legolas inferred that he was not in full agreement with all the Elvenking’s actions and policies, Gimli was surprised for a moment. Then Gimli questioned himself - why should he be surprised and not have considered that Legolas might disagree with his realm’s actions? In snatches of conversation he had overheard, Legolas had shown himself to be politically astute. Gimli himself picked and chose which policies of Erebor he agreed with and which he did not. But he could understand a reluctance to criticize one’s parent, one’s king to outsiders, regardless of whether or not one was in agreement with the official stance.

Gimli returned to his bedroll and piled stones before he prepared to sleep again. As he turned over he disturbed the votive stack of stones. No, it was not an ill omen. They would soon be in Moria and all would be well.

Balin would be open minded when it came to the Elf and to Tharkûn. 

Balin had come to Moria not only to restore the Dwarrowdelf, but also to make a stand for progress. Moria was known for the mithril mined here, but in times past, Khazad-dûm had always been known as a place of innovation. 

After Erebor was lost to them, it was as if Dwarrowdom had become frozen in time. They clung tighter to tradition and culture, as a drowning person clung to a log. Without both the Dwarrowdelf and Erebor to act as physical receptacles for their identity, the exiled Dwarves had had to carry it in themselves; in their language, their traditions. The Iron Hills still stood, but they were a place of trade, not steeped in culture the way Erebor and Khazad-dûm were.

If that drowning person, clinging to a log, saw a rescuer approach, there was a chance they would not leave the security of the log to make the leap to safety. That leap, that rushing of air was too much of a risk. That person would rather stick with what they knew, even if in their half-drowned state they retained a sense that it could not go on forever like that. In the same way, Dwarrow had rejected change and progress, even after Erebor had been retaken.

Gimli had once witnessed a bright young apprentice go over the head of both his master and his Guildmaster to come to King Dáin and speak of how he had developed a prototype. The device was as big as a medium-sized badger. At the base were wheels connected together then encased in a strip of an oddly yielding black substance, the same as Nori had provided for Gimli’s boots. 

The body of the creation had a small tank heated by coals and filled with water. Steam then propelled the device to lurch forward. The apprentice, Drur had been his name, had explained with shiny-eyed enthusiasm that they could replace half their miners with this. It could easily navigate the steep shafts of the mines, and with fewer miners underground, the less the risk would be from the inevitable periodic collapses of the shafts. Before the audience was over, Dáin had ordered his guard to smash the prototype with his war hammer.

“If you try to repair it or remake it, the next time the hammer will be meeting your hand.” 

The fate of a crippled Dwarf without the use of his hands was not something nice to dwell on.

Drur had stammered with shocked and bewildered tears, “But why?”

Dáin had not provided him with an answer.

Later, when the audience chamber was clear, Gimli had asked Dáin to explain.

His reply had been; “Tradition is what keeps us safe. Too much change is to invite chaos. There would not only be the unrest of the jobless, Dwarves whose craft is taken by such a thing, but the underlying chaos of change. I would not invite it in any more than I would invite in a dragon.”

This was one of the reasons Balin had left Erebor. He said the quality of Men’s work would never surpass that of Dwarrow, but their numbers and innovation would cause them to surge ahead. Dwarrow would never outnumber them, “Unless Mahal sends us more Dwarrowdams, and blesses each of them twins every time. But we do not need to be stuck. Those with the gift of innovation should not be stifled. I need to make a place for them, Gimli.”

It had taken twenty years from the date of that conversation for the expedition of Moria to leave Erebor. It had taken with it all those known to have strange ideas, who made strange and unorthodox designs. Too many of them had left for it to be a coincidence, but Balin had stopped short of saying _‘If you are odd, or strange, or unappreciated, come with me.’_

Those Dwarrow had formed a significant proportion of those new settlers. 

Others had joined them from the Iron Hills, and some stubborn hold outs who had remained in Ered Luin. Some had been romantics, wishing to be at the helm of the restoration of Dwarrow history in the restoration of Moria. Others simply wanted a change. Others still had seen how ‘upstart labourers like the Urs were now Lords of Erebor’, and recognised the advantages for their lines in staking their claims in Moria early.

But in Erebor, those who had gone to Moria had earned the whispered nickname ‘Balin’s oddities.’ The silence from Moria was being called a punishment from Mahal for deviant thinking. 

Gimli knew there had been arguments between Balin and Dáin, both before and after they left. Balin could have made the decision to completely cut ties with Erebor. To assert their independence and demonstrate that it was absolute. Perhaps that was why they were silent. That was probably why.

They would go to Moria and see all the progress that had been made. 

All would be well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Dwarf Bread is Discworld inspired Dwarf Bread :-D
> 
> 'cavern of the xyz', e.g. mouth - comes from ‘From Sweet Fellowship Comes Nectar’ by Laura JV (jacquez); 
> 
> hrakna and thruz are terms from hobbitdragon’s fics.
> 
> Your comments are sooo lovely to get, thank you! My (pre) Christmas wish is to hear from someone who has not had a chance to comment before, just to know (if) they like the story. (does saying it aloud make it not come true? I hope that doesn't jinx it)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanza, Happy Saturnalia or belated Winter/Summer solstice for this Monday just gone, and bah humbug too!
> 
> I felt like a proper Grinch, dropping Gimli and the gang in Moria in the season of 'glad tidings of comfort and joy'… so here is a cracky au fix it. To quote Cassunjey - they Got To See How Nice Balin Had Made Everything. Thanks for the inspirational comments and chats with betas.

They Went To Moria And Everything Was Fine.

[Link](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28314417)

This is a Christmas gift to all my lovely readers and everyone who has supported this story!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular scheduling will resume...soon, not sure when exactly - I'm having a breather, plus letting my poor overworked betas have a holiday break!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> Thank you to Aylwyyn228, Cassunjey and de_la_cruz87. They are great writers and sharing their time and knowledge has made my story so much better than it would have been without them. Thanks!
> 
> a/n - embuggerance is a Terry Pratchett word I love. 
> 
> *...*= canon text
> 
> Edit: next update will be Saturday 16th January

Intrusive thoughts lurked at the threshold of Gimli’s mind, testing his defences. And as the Fellowship approached Moria, the inner whispers became louder. 

The thoughts became insistent, like an Ered Luin landlord knocking for his overdue rent. _Sit still, lamps out. Ignore him and he will go away_. Everything will be fine.

Gimli watched as Merry ate his birthday cake. _Thank Mahal_ , they would soon be having pastries and sweetmeats again. Gimli had only developed a sweet-tooth in Erebor, once they could afford such things regularly. He had liked them before, but had not allowed himself the indulgence. He could remember, even as a small Dwarrowling, learning to never ask for more of anything. It would have upset his parents for them to know they could not provide that for him. So he had, by sheer force of will, ignored his sweet-tooth. 

Gimli thought of the cram he had travelled with in his under-armour vest and at the bottom of his pack. He would get rid of it in Khazad-dûm. Battlehogs would eat anything. He would replace it with fresh cram to travel on with, in case of emergency. It would not be as good as that made with Bifur’s secret Ur recipe, but the replacement cram would be better than the months-old stuff he had packed in Erebor, and had travelled all this way with. 

Gimli watched with a measure of amused detachment as, at the last moment, Legolas backtracked from asking for cake. The way they were all pandering to Merry and Pippin, as the youngest in the Fellowship, was probably the treatment Legolas himself was used to in his home.

That sparked a panic as Gimli wondered whether Legolas was of age among his people. In Dale, Legolas had asked if _Gimli_ was of age, but that did not mean Legolas _himself_ was of age. After all, if Pippin were a Man, at twenty-eight he would be seen as more than fully grown. But for a Dwarf, at that age he would still be sitting with tutors most days and doing chores in the evenings, before going to bed at the time his parents directed. As he was now, Pippin was a hobbit ‘tween’, not yet of age. Gimli felt relief at Legolas’ confirmation. He would not have liked to have transgressed in that way, even unknowingly.

Gimli felt uneasy that he had not voiced an objection to travelling with one who had not yet reached his majority. He had not wanted to speak against Tharkûn, but in not speaking out, Gimli had allowed himself to be complicit in leading one so young into danger. And it was not as if Pippin were mature for his age; in fact, Bilbo had called him ‘exceptionally Tookish’. It was too late now to send him back, too dangerous to send him alone.

The Erebor delegation had declined to seek the council of the Elves regarding Moria’s silence. The Elves did not need to know Dwarrow business, or weaknesses. The silence of Moria had a perfectly reasonable explanation. _Keep busy_. Gimli’s axe was sharper than it had ever been before.

During the day he walked, talked and kept busy. He was a Dwarf, and as they said, _‘busy hands keep the Elves away’_. The saying did not really make sense. As if an idle thought could summon an Elf. _Well, perhaps there was some truth to it._

It was better to keep Elves away _in general_ , but he did not include Legolas in that. Legolas was probably different from the rest of them because he was still young. They probably became callous and twisted with excessive age. 

Gimi gathered fallen sticks as they walked, until they had enough to warm yet more soup. Gimli soaked pulses in a waxed bag, so that they would soften during the day and later, he would add these to the soup they would have as the main meal of the day.

Again, Legolas walked beside Gimli, and the path felt easier with the Elf by his side.

Legolas asked Gimli the ages of those in the Fellowship. Fuck knew how old Tharkûn was, and Legolas laughed when Gimli said as much. Legolas clarified that ‘he had not meant Gandalf’. 

Aragorn had already said he was in his ninth decade. 

“An ordinary Man of Dale would probably be walking with a stick, if he was even still alive, and not look as battle-ready as Aragorn does,” Gimli had laughed.

Gimli looked across and saw that Legolas’ face had become that mask, and Gimli now recognised that underneath, the seas of his emotions were roiling. 

“And Boromir?” Legolas whispered.

Now unsmiling, Gimli said he looked around thirty or forty, but did not know if there was any ‘Numenor business going on there’. 

They walked in silence for almost a furlong before Legolas continued, saying only, “The hobbits?”

“They have about fifty years remaining to them, unless they reach Bilbo’s prodigious age, which Gandalf said was partly due to the Ring.”

Legolas’ face looked so stricken, that it was then Gimli understood that the isolation of the Elves from the mortals was in part an act of self-preservation.

If Legolas felt this way about Men and hobbits he had known for only a matter of weeks, how would a lifelong mortal friendship affect him? Gimli was starting to see that this was not something Legolas was built for; to see companions age and die. _This_ was why Elves locked themselves away from illness, and death and other mortal ailments. Not out of pride or haughtiness, but out of self-preservation. 

Gimli himself had been alive to the fact that the hobbits may not all survive the journey, and had tried, with varying degrees of success, to remain detached and to focus on their protection. 

Unless some misfortune struck, Legolas had the _guarantee_ that he would outlive his companions here, apart from Tharkûn. Yet he did not close himself off.

Was it ignorance on Legolas’ part, that he failed to guard his heart against friendship with mortals? Should Gimli warn him? Warn him away from their own growing accord?

The Elf was of age, and in a position to make his own choices. But maybe Gimli should pull back from this growing friendship, so as to save the Elf from hurt. Maybe retain the diplomatic elements, remain civil, but not laugh so much together.

Legolas did not ask Gimli’s age, or how many years he had remaining, and Gimli did not volunteer that information.

As the light of day faded, the entrance to Khazad-dûm was within sight. 

The towering walls Tharkûn led them past were no natural phenomenon, but built up over thousands of years, the stone piled up as the inside of the mountain was painstakingly carved away into the magnificent halls and mines which now lay before them.

Erebor was impressive even at a distance. The Lonely Mountain stood out, majestic, and in sharp relief against the plain landscape around it. In contrast, here, millenia of working underground had caused innumerable piles of rubble to lay strewn about. The atmosphere was somewhat forbidding, but no matter. It was the inside that would render them all speechless.

Gimli shuddered with disgust at the sight of unclean water as they drew near. *The water was green and stagnant.*

Something about the stone here felt wrong.

It did not welcome him as it should. This was not what Gimli had expected.

As they walked the final furlong, Gimli realised that the water was much closer to the gates than in the etchings Gimli had seen. From his lessons, the pool was not meant to extend so far. How was the water flowing through Khazad-dûm, if it was all dammed up here? Balin would explain, probably with a long-winded story of a new innovation. 

As they turned the final corner, Tharkûn stopped and spoke to all of them, but looked at Sam.

 ***** ”We cannot take the poor beast into the mines,’ said Tharkûn. ‘The road under the mountains is a dark road, and there are places narrow and steep which he cannot tread, even if we can. Poor Bill has been a useful companion and it goes to my heart to turn him adrift now, I would have travelled lighter and brought no animal, least of all this one that Sam is so fond of, I feared all along that we should be obliged to take this path.”*

Sam buried his face in the pony’s mane, and the others spent several minutes persuading and detaching Sam, then unloading the pony and sending it to wander alone in the wilds. Poor creature.

Legolas’ voice rang out into the silence as they continued to walk towards Moria.

“I do not like it here.”

After all the open-mindedness Legolas had shown in the last few days, the Elf was now disparaging the glorious Dwarrowdelf. And before even entering. Gimli was bitterly disappointed. The Elf’s words were a slap in the face. Maybe he _was_ just an arrogant, closed-minded princeling after all. In which case, he could fuck off back to Mirkwood. 

Gimli took a step forward.

Aragorn looked ready to step between them, but Gimli took hold of himself and did not rise to the provocation. Gimli would be among his kin soon, when the gates opened. It would set the wrong tone if they saw him bickering with the Elf.

Whatever harsh words the Elf might say would not hurt him. Despite Legolas’ rudeness, Gimli would not retaliate. Gimli decided to be magnanimous and ignore the insult to his homeland. ‘ _I do not like it here’_. The magnificence of Khazad-dûm would shortly have him changing his tune. 

“Soon, Master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves. Malt beer, ripe meat off the bone!”

The hobbits perked up, and they closed the final distance quickly. They had arrived.

They found themselves before the gates of Khazad-dûm. Before the place the gates should be.

And they were firmly shut.

And hidden.

_Well, this was an embuggerance._

All his life, Gimli had heard tales of Khazad-dûm. Now Gimli had reached it only to find the way barred. 

Lookouts should have seen the Fellowship from a distance. Erebor had a version of the magnifying lenses at the guard posts, but he had heard of the magnificence of those of Moria. 

Where was the fanfare and welcome?

And where were the sentries?

Gimli knew some of Dwalin’s students had come to Khazad-dûm, some of whom he had trained alongside, and one of Gimli’s own first apprentices. They would not be so lax in failing to mount guards at the entrance. 

Gimli pushed aside the uneasy thoughts.

They would have their own way of doing things in Khazad-dûm.

And had he not read that in the days of Durin the gates had stood open? Gimli supposed leaving them open was a step too far, but perhaps in the same spirit they did not have a guard posted here. 

It was more informal than Erebor. 

Or perhaps someone was slacking, and on a smoking-break or taking an early dinner. Gimli chuckled. He wondered what creative punishment the head guard would have for that one. The self-cleaning latrines of Khazad-dûm did not need attention. Perhaps mucking out the hogs. Gimli had had to do that once. He made sure he never had to again. 

Soon someone would be here. 

Gimli could feel all the eyes of the Fellowship on him. 

He grew warm, but took the opportunity to smoke his pipe as he waited. 

Gimli tapped out the ash and walked towards the wall where the hidden doors should be.

Nori had once shown Gimli where the hidden door of Erebor was. Gimli had known that without a key there was no chance of opening it, and of course, the king held the only key. But Gimli had a fairly strong suspicion that Nori had somehow made a copy. Nori had shown him how the door was indistinguishable from the stone around it. And it was the same here.

Gimli stood up straight, walked towards the mountainside and took off his helm, hoping to make his features clear.

Perhaps the guard was one he had known in Erebor. And even if they did not know him personally, Gimli was hopeful that any guard in a concealed lookout point could see clearly enough to report that a Dwarf in armour marked with the Durin insignia waited at the gates. They could not bar him from Khazad-dûm; it was every Dwarf’s birthright. 

Perhaps sentries had seen Legolas and would not open the gates to allow in an Elf.

Perhaps he had even been recognised as Thranduilion. He had been at the Battle of Five Armies. Some might recognise his appearance.

Gimli did not start shouting to be allowed in. He would wait. 

Or maybe they did not want to allow Tharkûn in, to begin his meddling.

Maybe they were consulting with Balin. 

The others still said nothing, but Gimli burned with embarrassment. 

Gimli should have asked Nori, or Dáin, or someone for more information about Khazad-dûm. Nori had visited twice in the first few years, so he would know. Gimli should have asked how to get in. But no one in Erebor spoke of Khazad-dûm. The subject was - well, no one spoke of it. Even so, Gimli should at least have looked in the library before they left, instead of singing and drinking away his final night in Erebor. 

He should have visited here before the messages stopped. Once they stopped he had asked Dáin for permission to join those travelling to investigate, but he had been forbidden to do so.

Tharkûn said he had come a different way the last time he had been here. Useless. 

The daylight faded, and eventually mithril runes shone in the moonlight. 

Elven writing. 

Elven script on the doors of the Dwarrowdelf.

Well, that was unexpected. 

No one had mentioned that. 

‘Celebrimbor’ was not a Dwarrow name. Tharkûn said Celebrimbor was an Elf, and Gimli had no reason to disbelieve him. 

But Khazad-dûm had always been a place of innovation, and it should not have surprised Gimli that the ‘Gates of Narvi’ he had learned of were actually inscribed ‘Celebrimbor and Narvi’. 

Perhaps there really could be a friendship between himself and an Elf. Even when this time of crisis was past, and they were not together only due to a common threat. 

There was already a template to follow. 

Ori would know of a scroll from the great library of Moria where Gimli could find out more about this Celebrimbor. And find out the nature of their connection to Narvi.

The collaboration between Elves and Dwarves in creating the gates together; Gimli would take it as a good omen.

A bloody password was needed. They all sat about the gate as Tharkûn chanted uselessly at it.

Gimli was mortified.

Gimli’s thoughts wandered as the discomfort at their wait grew. On the scum on the surface of the water, the moon was reflected, clear and pure. The gem the Elf had worn in Dale had looked like the bright, reflected moon in the water. 

Gimli ventured a word to Legolas. He looked tense and was probably concerned about his welcome. Gimli tried to distract him. “Elf, where is the gem you wore in Dale?”

It was the first time he had dared to mention ‘Dale’ before the others, to indicate they may have known each other before this journey.

Legolas’ response was icy. “Are gems all you Dwarves think of?”

 _‘Well, fuck you very much,’_ Gimli thought, but he remained silent. He would excuse that; the Elf was understandably nervous. Gimli remembered how he had felt walking into Rivendell, and then he had been with his father and a whole party of Dwarves, and they were expected.

Gimli went back to pondering. 

Perhaps he needed to speak Khuzdul out loud for the sentries to hear, so that it was clear he was a Dwarf and not just a short, bearded Man who had seized hold of Dwarven armour and wandered over with his motley companions. Or perhaps they thought he was a Petty Dwarf. But Khazad-dûm was a homeland for _all_ Dwarves, even a Petty Dwarf should receive a welcome. 

Gimli would not make such a flounce against tradition, speaking Khuzdul before outsiders. Not now. Not here.

Tharkûn stood and examined the doors, yet again, then turned to Gimli.

*“There was close friendship once between Dwarves and Elves.”

“It was not the fault of the Dwarves that friendship waned,” snapped Gimli.

“I have not heard that it was the fault of the Elves,” said Legolas tersely.

“I have heard both,”* said Tharkûn.

As they waited, idle snatches of conversation floated towards Gimli. Tharkûn spoke of how he remembered when Aragorn wore his hair in long ringlets. Aragorn coloured as Tharkûn told of how some of the Elf maidens of Rivendell saw him as a little doll.

Aragorn smiled and conceded that indeed, “I used to wear my hair long, and braided in the Elven style.”

Boromir had thrown a sharp look at Aragorn.

Aragorn looked directly at Boromir as he spoke. “As I grew older, I came to understand that my place was with Men, and the day I was of age, I left Rivendell to join the Dúnedain, and on that day I cut my hair short.”

Both Gimli and Legolas flinched at the talk of cutting hair. The Elf had been jumpy and nervous since they had reached the gates. He had said that he did not like it here, and Gimli now privately conceded that there was some justification to the sentiment. The water really did have an unwholesome look. 

Another hour passed.

Tempers were now frayed. Pippin was getting on everyone’s nerves and Tharkûn snapped at him. 

It should not be like this.

They should by now be travelling through corridors bustling with activity. Not waiting in the dark beside a stagnant pool. 

Bored with the wait, Pippin began to throw pebbles and stones into the water. 

Finally, Frodo solved the riddle. It was so simple.

_Friend_

Would Gimli one day be able to call an Elf ‘friend’?

This evening would be a step towards that goal. 

Friendship had indeed once bloomed between their two peoples. Here was the evidence, carved in stone and mithril. Elves had been given free rein to wander into Khazad-dûm, the great Dwarrowdelf as and when it took their fancy. All they needed to do was to speak a single word. In their own tongue.

He knew the histories of the wrongs between their people. But here, in stone, was proof it could be otherwise. Perhaps there truly could be healing, and perhaps, once again their peoples could share such an accord. Gimi was feeling optimistic and generous in light of the goodwill that awaited them. 

Tonight they would honour Tharkûn. Gimli would acknowledge his own wrongdoing towards Legolas, he would make amends and pave the way for positive relations between not only himself and Legolas, but between Elvenkind and the Khazad. 

Now he would be able to impress them all with the splendour and hospitality of Khazad-dûm. 

As the gates opened, anticipation flared in Gimli’s chest. 

He breathed in deeply to calm himself.

Foul air greeted them as the doors opened fully and in an instant, Gimli’s worst fears were confirmed.

There had been a tragedy here. 

His feet carried him into Moria, into a nightmare.

Gimli took hold of his axe.

“This is no mine, this is a tomb!” cried Boromir.

_No_

_This was wrong_

_Khazad-dûm was magnificent._

_Not a charnel house._

_No._

_Unburied dead lay with Goblin arrows scattered about them. Long dead._

_There would be no feast._

Gimli’s ears rang, with a high pitched sound.

As if in a dream, Gimli could only stand and watch as Frodo was dragged towards the water.

Legolas was unslinging his bow. 

_This was just a nightmare._

All Gimli could think was that he wanted a bath and a change of clothes.

He saw his companions fleeing from tentacles.

The ancient gates of Narvi collapsed as Gimli stood transfixed. They were plunged into darkness as they were blocked in. 

The shock numbed him and he could not even feel the axe in his hand.

_This was a dream._

Foul air, and unburied dead all around. A bad dream, from which he would wake any moment. 

But the smell told him it was real. 

Gimli threw up.

As Gimli rinsed the acrid taste from his mouth, the thought came that they would need to conserve water. The water they carried was all they had now. And many of their packs had been lost under the rubble. 

Gimli picked up his axe from where it had fallen on the ground.

He felt numb.

Tharkûn had seen Khazad-dûm in the days of its glory. Gimli wanted to weep with him. But he dared not meet his eyes. He dared not look at any of his companions. 

Of course Gimli had known. Deep down he had known that something was very wrong.

Yet he had led them all here.

The horror of the dishonoured bones washed over him. He had seen death before, but never before had he seen dishonoured bones of the Khazad. The absolute horror of it gripped him like a physical hold. It weighed down on him as if he too had been buried under the rubble. 

The rubble.

Gimli had witnessed the destruction of the ancient gates of Narvi and of the Western entrance to Khazad-dûm. 

He had seen the grand entrance of Khazad-dûm littered, defiled with the unburied bones of both Dwarves and Goblins. 

Through this haze, Gimli followed Aragorn’s voice of command as it led them through the darkness. 

They were to walk what Tharkûn was calling _‘the long dark of Moria’._

The faint light of Tharkûn’s staff was the only light. 

Legolas - that shine of his was gone. 

Everywhere, there lay stacked teetering towers of votive stones; many had toppled and lay unrestored.

Gimli did not speak and he had time alone with his thoughts.

The letters had stopped coming. 

Ori, was always with a quill behind his ear, or in his hand. He was always writing, always scribbling. Ori would never have stopped writing to him.

Ori had been so excited in the first days of the reclamation. He had spoken of the splendour of the halls. He had spoken of the writings he had found and the pride he felt at being part of something great. 

Ori had written of how he felt like a fraud being called a ‘Hero of Erebor’. As part of Thorin’s Company, Ori said he had felt more like a burden than anything. It had been Nori who had been originally invited to join the Company, as the burglar. When Ori had insisted on becoming a member also, Fili and Kili had helped to persuade Thorin to have a contract drawn up. Gimli had thought Thorin could be similarly persuaded in his own case, but that had not succeeded. 

Nori had refused to act as the burglar if Ori would be watching, and that was how Bilbo had been recruited. 

Ori had said that he felt that he had spent most of his time in the Company running and hiding, and being scared, and hungry, and cold. Ori said that he had done nothing heroic, and that it made him feel like an imposter, being called ‘Hero of Erebor’. He had said that being part of the reclamation of Khazad-dûm would give him something of his own to feel proud of, without Nori and Dori shielding him and holding his hands every step of the way.

Clever, resourceful Ori would never have sent Dori to an early grave from worry and sorrow after ten years of silence from the Khazad-dûm settlers. Dori had already been of age when Nori was born, but should have had more years. Dori would have ignored Dáin’s moratorium on travel to Khazad-dûm from Erebor, but failing health had made a long journey impossible.

For weeks after Dori’s death, Nori had disappeared, then returned somber, and they had not spoken of his loss, or of Khazad-dûm. 

Once again, Gimli would need to examine his thoughts, to take them apart, lay them out and inspect them.

Gimli had known, oh, he had known. He had led his friends into danger out of a thin hope that he could dazzle and impress them. _Was he really so shallow?_ He knew they did not see him as a vagabond, but he had wanted them to witness the full glory of the Khazad. _Would the Elf have accepted an ordinary apology, without the backdrop of Khazad-dûm?_ Of course Legolas would have. Gimli remembered the gentle pressure of Legolas’ hand as they had finally spoken as they hid from the Crebain. If Gimli had been alone, would he still have come here? 

Gimli did not know.

Gimli pondered on how one could have all the facts spread out on a workbench, yet still be able to twist them to fit a different narrative. Especially when one was predisposed towards a particular interpretation; Gimli had done this with Legolas. Now it had happened again. He should have recognised the fault in his thinking. 

As they walked through Moria, Gimli felt as if he were drifting in a fog.

They set up camp. Mechanically, Gimli emptied his pouch to get to the emergency cram at the bottom. Hopefully he would not need to remove his armour to access the final pieces in the pouches. Gimli hoped they would find someone by then - or at least some stores. 

They passed a fitful first night, and for the next two days’ march, Gimli felt oddly detached, as if he was watching them all from afar, even himself. 

He could not take in any of the beauty of the architecture.

But, Khazad-dûm had fallen before, and the Khazad had reclaimed it.

And even with the cold reality before him, Gimli still hoped his kin might be in a safe enclave, alive.

Ravens did sometimes get lost, or were attacked by birds of prey. 

But eventually, the ravens of Erebor had refused to fly to Khazad-dûm. 

Ori had wanted to prove himself. When the messages stopped, at first, Gimli told himself they were busy with the new settlement. 

Then, Gimli wanted to believe the rumours that the Repopulists had gone against King Dáin’s wishes and set up as an isolationist enclave. That they wanted to assert independence through cutting diplomatic ties with Erebor. That Balin wanted to position himself as king of all the Khazad, even though that went against everything he knew about Balin. When the requests for supplies stopped, Gimli allowed himself to believe the proclamations that the settlement was now self-sufficient. In the days of old, when a settlement no longer needed to rely on the outside world, that was a sign of success. Normally that took hundreds of years to achieve.

Ori had written of mushroom farming, mole breeding and of their stocks of eyeless white fish, bred in deep caves and which were oddly tasteless, but nutritious. Shafts of sunlight were reflected with great mirrors to grow green things. 

Gimli had allowed himself to believe that all was not lost.

While tending to the tombs of his Line, and polishing the inscription on Kili’s tomb, Gimli had discovered Dwalin in the Lin section of the catacombs. Gimli saw that Dwalin had erected a memorial marker in defiance of the king. Officially, the mission to resettle Khazad-dûm had not failed, thus there should be no mourning for the settlers. But Dwalin was always so pessimistic.

True, scouts sent out to Khazad-dûm did not return, but roads could be dangerous. They could even have perished on the return journey. No one knew. At first, Gimli had read Nori’s reports, that supplies were no longer being ordered, but he had eventually stopped looking. Perhaps the scouts had liked it so much that they had stayed and not sent a message because they would be reprimanded for dereliction of duty. Or maybe Balin _had_ enacted isolationist policies and for that reason they had remained silent.

But Gimli needed to face reality. Boromir’s words were true; this was a mausoleum. But the nameless dead were not Ori. They were not quick-witted Balin. They were not his funny, kind uncle, who pretended he could not hear whenever people were talking nonsense, or saying anything he did not wish to hear, or just when he fancied a laugh. They could still be here somewhere. Safe.

Óin had always ignored Glóin’s ‘Elf rants’, as he called them. “I was bloody there too, you know. What did you expect the Elvenking to do, brother? Lay out the welcome gravel, and feed us spiced mushrooms? We were bloody trespassers! Thank Mahal for the burglar and those Elves who freed us!” 

At that point Óin’s visit to their home would usually end.

But Óin had not left Erebor due to any disagreement. He had always been one for adventure. He had told Gimli that his logic in training as a healer had been that there was always room for a healer in a travelling caravan.

Óin had been among the first to join Thorin’s Company. Fili, Kili and Dwalin had been the first to stand by Thorin. Next had come Óin, then Glóin. 

Balin had said he would assist the Company in an advisory capacity, but not actually journey to reclaim Erebor. Not through a lack of courage, but because his skill was best used in the planning and analysis stages. 

And Thorin was not a king without foresight. If he were lost on the mission, Dís would need an advisor to help with the burden of leading their people, so Balin was due to stay in Ered Luin when the Company set out.

They had expected others of the Line of Durin to assist them and to rally Dwarves to their cause. 

Thorin had called for the Iron Hills and Ered Luin to muster and reclaim their homeland. They did not have enough coin to pay for an army in any case, but Thorin had sneered that _‘Erebor was not for mercenaries, it was only for those with love for the Khazad to reclaim’._

But the memory of the dragon was too fresh.

“We would rather have our lives, than our pride.” This had been the universal response of the Dwarrow Thorin had appealed to, as they grubbed about in the dirt for food, or accepted mistreatment from Men.

Gimli had been ready to follow. He had assisted Balin with preparations. Gimli woke early every day to join the extra training sessions with Dwalin, Fili and Kili. Together with Ori, he spoke of the heroic deeds they would perform in fighting the dragon. 

Only when it became clear, on the eve of their departure, that there would be no last minute surge of Dwarves ready to join the Company had Balin taken a contract from the unused stack, and had signed his own name to one. It was with great reluctance that he became the thirteenth member of Thorin’s Company.

Gimli himself had had to be restrained by Glóin, after crying hot, angry tears at learning he was not to be the fourteenth member of the Company. He had thought Balin would relent and draw up a contract for Gimli to sign. But instead, Balin has spoken gently to Gimli, saying that Ered Luin needed those of the line of Durin to stand ready to lead the people in their absence, and to lead the people if they failed. But they had not failed. 

Now, in Moria, this was what failure looked like. 

Gimli looked up to Balin, and could not imagine him failing at anything. Though his hair had whitened prematurely, he had had years left when he had departed for Khazad-dûm. No. Gimli could not imagine those quick, lively, laughing eyes closed forever in the dark of Moria. There was still hope that somewhere within this great realm, some may still be alive.

But how many hundreds had died, thousands even? Yes, it was now truly ‘Moria’. _The Black Pit._

There had been early reports of success by the Repopulists when messages had still flowed. Itinerant Dwarves had settled here and were welcomed. Gimli knew from official records that at least a few dams had been successfully delivered of a dwarrowling in the first few years - they were a beacon of hope in this new expansion. Óin had been in correspondence with hobbit healers, and there had been some early successes in their experimentation with fertility teas and herbs. There had been a steadily growing population.

Had weanlings died here?

Gimli could feel in the stone the malaise which had settled into the foundations of this place. The feeling of terror had collected in this place, and in this concentrated form it caused Gimli to feel numb.

But there was still a chance. 

The Dwarrowdelf was enormous. In times past, there were Dwarrow who were said to have lived and died without ever needing to leave its sanctuary.

It would take them a total of three or four marches to traverse Khazad-dûm. Even Tharkûn did not deny there was a chance his kin were safe in some deep hall in this vast kingdom, and Gimli hoped they would find them. There was a chance that Ori, Óin and Balin still lived. 

Maybe Gimli should ask Frodo to use the Ring here, or maybe Gimli could borrow it, just for a little while. To help find his kin. To restore the glory of the Khazad.

No.

They walked for hours in the near dark. 

The images of the unburied dead flashed before his eyes. 

Gimli had seen death before. But this - this destruction of the Mighty Khazad-dûm -

And then the shame had barrelled over him.

Gimli had just stood and watched as the Fellowship had battled.

Gimli was a warrior, but he had not moved in defence of his companions.

He had just stood and watched like a coward.

Now they ran from the unburied bones, doing nothing to honour them, saying no words over them. 

They walked in silence. They were now trapped in here and it was his fault. The Men looked grim. The hobbits looked terrified. Tharkûn was inscrutable. And the Elf trembled. 

Gimli did not speak. What could he say? He was so ashamed. He had brought them here. 

Boromir was trying to catch his eye, but Gimli looked away. They must hate him now for bringing them here to this _black pit._

They did not dare wander far from the main path. Gimli did not know where to find the magnificent works of engineering that were the public conveniences of Khazad-dûm. They relieved themselves in corners, then left the mess behind them as they walked on, towards the other side of Moria.

A Dwarf. Lost underground. 

Tharkûn had taken the light of his staff with him as he sat alone and pondered the way, and now the rest of the Fellowship sat in deep shadow.

Gimli had never been here before, he could not be expected to know the way. Gimli’s stonesense was not as strong as that of Dwarves like Bombur, who could sense the paths of rocks for leagues. Nor did it have the precision of Nori’s, who could navigate through all kinds of unstable rock.*

No one in their right mind could blame Gimli for being lost here, but he blamed himself. 

He never should have brought this Elf here. To this dead place. He should not have led any of them here. 

The last time he had received a letter from his uncle Óin had been more than twenty years ago, when Gimli had still been courting Gudrun. Uncle Óin loved his family. Even if he had been commanded to cease contact with Erebor, he would not have followed blindly. And Balin, what would cause him to command such a thing?

Tharkûn remembered the way and called them to follow.

As they crossed a great hall, Tharkûn spoke. _*“_ _There used to be great windows on the mountain-side, and shafts leading out to the light in the upper reaches of the Mines. I think we have reached them now, but it is night outside again, and we cannot tell until morning. If I am right, tomorrow we may actually see the morning peeping in.”*_

Gimli wished he could allow the Elf some daylight after three days of walking in the dark. Or even to grant him the sight of the stars. But the panes of glass set in the mountainside were too thick. 

It was not good to confine such a creature so deep below ground. Gimli’s father had spoken of the halls of the Elvenking, and of how they were set partially underground. But they were flooded with light, day and night. It was not like this Mahal forsaken place. 

Gimli had to speak. His throat was dry and rasped with the effort. *“ _Of old it was not darksome, but full of light and splendour, as is still remembered in our songs.”*_

Gimli found his voice, and sang in Westron, a version of the song of Khazad-dûm they were first taught before they were trusted with the Khuzdul. After the last verse, the silence felt thick. 

_Was his the only Dwarrow voice left here, in Khazad-dûm?_

Gimli swallowed and let the others walk on ahead as they set up camp for the night. 

They came to another crossing of paths and Tharkûn paused and stood, trying to remember the way. Gimli sat a little apart from the others.

Legolas was still trembling.

“What ails you lad?” Gimli asked, as Legolas approached him. _What stupid kind of question is that?_ Gimli asked himself.

Legolas sat down beside him. “There is something wrong here, Gimli.”

Gimli bit his tongue. He wanted to say. _‘Of fucking course there is, we saw Dwarves laying unburied. Well spotted, something is wrong.’_ But he had lost any right to speak in such a way. He was grateful the Elf was not berating him for bringing him here. None of them had said anything to Gimli to blame him for their being here. That almost made it worse.

“The stones,” Legolas whispered.

What did an Elf know of stones? Gimli could feel the distress they had retained, of course. With so much recent suffering they would be saturated with that desolation. To a rock, the lifetime of any mortal was ‘recent’. But Gimli was surprised the Elf could feel this wrongness in the stone, however there was not only that. The stones were also curious. 

Gimli rarely removed his reinforced gloves, but now he did so, and took into his own one of Legolas’ trembling hands. 

Legolas’ hands were as soft as a dwarrowling’s, as soft as one still untrained in craft, untrained in arms. He had no archer’s callouses.

Only a few weeks ago, Gimli would have thought the Elf was pretending to be afraid, as part of some Elven plot. 

Now, Gimli found himself covering Legolas’ hand with his own broad palm. 

Legolas breathed shallowly in the silence. 

Then he spoke.

“The stone - the stone presses down on me. And there is something wrong.”

“Lad, the stone bears you no ill-will. It is only curious that an Elf is here, after so long.” Gimli took Legolas’ slim hand and pressed it gently to the stone wall. 

Legolas had the soft hands of a worker of silk, or one of those rare Dwarves who chose no craft of the hands, but chose instead to sing, or tell stories and keep Dwarven lore as their craft.

“What can you feel, Legolas?” 

Gimli held his breath.

It felt as if hours passed as they sat together in silence, before Legolas spoke. 

“It feels like when a tree has been alone for a very long time.” Then Legolas gasped. “Oh, I can feel it. * _I hear the stones lament: ‘deep they delved here.’_ ** _*_** Oh, Gimli! There is something wrong.”

Their fingers tangled together, offering and receiving comfort.

“I have found the way,” called Tharkûn.

As they walked, Gimli could see Legolas trailing his fingers on the walls and whispering.

When they stopped again, Gimli asked, “What have you been saying?”

“I have been telling them about myself, about my brothers, the things I like. As there has not been an Elf here in long ages.”

Would that Gimli had the hearing of an Elf to hear what Legolas whispered, to understand him better. Gimli feared that despite the recent thaw between them, he had now forfeited the privilege of getting to know him. For how could it be anything else but winter between them now that Gimli had led them all into danger?

Legolas walked at the front of the line, with Tharkûn and his staff, while Gimli remained at the back, in deepest shadow.

Gimli had felt the minesign carved at intervals on the walls. _Steep._ There was now little minesign here, however. Such markers were for excavations, where one could be expected to be without light. These hallways were meant to be blazing with torches.

Tharkûn warned that Gollum had somehow found his way in, and that he was near.

That night, Legolas brought his sleeping roll next to Gimli’s.

“You can see in this dark, yes?” Legolas asked.

“Aye,”

“You will see if Gollum comes?”

Understanding passed between them. Gimli had seen fear mixed with mortification like that before.

When he had asked his apprentice to speak before a crowd, behind the embarrassment, he had seen it mingled with that stark desperation. Legolas was terrified.

“I will keep watch beside you.”

Gimli could see that Legolas had no intention of sleeping this night. Not even his strange, Elven rest.

Legolas spoke.

“Do you know why I joined the Fellowship, Gimli?”

“I know of Lord Elrond’s reasons, but what of yours?”

“For the sake of my honour.”

That sounded like something a Dwarf would say. 

He continued. “I went to Rivendell to report and face the consequences of the loss of Gollum.”

Glóin had complained to Bilbo that Legolas had shown more care for the foul, murdering creature than he had ever shown the imprisoned Dwarves, taking Gollum out for daily walks. Bilbo had reminded Glóin that Legolas _had_ eventually freed them, which had led to a quick change of subject. 

Again, Legolas was silent for a long moment. “Now he is here in the dark with us, because of my mistake. Here with his strangling hands, as the hobbits sleep.”

Gimli hoped he was not overstepping, and took a hand in his own.

“You were trying to do a good thing, Legolas. You were not to have known how it would turn out.”

Legolas smiled and looked at him in the dark. 

“Then why can you not apply that wisdom to yourself, Gimli?”

Startled, Gimli began, “I - no, it is different. I should not have been so stone-headed. It was clear that something was not right. I should never have brought us here.” His breath was coming heavily, but Legolas was still smiling serenely.

“I was also ‘stone-headed’, Gimli. Aragorn warned me of the danger, but I thought I knew better. It led to the death of one under my care. And now, with Gollum free to roam, who knows what mischief he may have spread? What he still may do.”

Gimli did not know what to say. This was no Dwarrowling to pacify with anodyne murmurs of ‘Everything will be alright.’

“Gimli, you were trying to do a good thing. You hoped it would be a safe place, just as I hoped the good in Gollum would respond to my leniency. Instead an Elf died. A whole patrol was taken from the forest to travel with me to Rivendell. Who knows what losses may have been incurred due to their absence.” Legolas swallowed. “I know not even if they, if my brother, returned home safely. And I know they are all worrying about me.”

Legolas reached his other hand towards Gimli, who took it without hesitation. He released Legolas’ hands only to remove his gloves, then felt their warmth. They were not trembling. 

“If I had not been ‘stone-headed’ - if Gollum were still in the dungeons, then perhaps I never would have seen you again. I would have had no reason to be in Rivendell at the time of the Council.”

Gimli gently squeezed his hand. It seemed like a bird’s - so fragile, as if it could break with the slightest pressure. But Gimli had seen Legolas impale that Warg. He was as strong as any Dwarf. 

Gimli was not ready to think back to the pain of the misunderstanding, or to talk of how he himself had come to be in Rivendell. 

“Your reason for being in Rivendell, accepting the responsibility. That was noble. You took your blame, Legolas. So allow me the same. I take the blame for bringing us here.”

The Elf had the audacity to laugh.

“No, Gimli. We all agreed to come. As Elrond said, none of us is bound, only Frodo is charged not to discard - it. Gandalf is so nosy. Do you think he had no idea of how things might stand here? And Aragorn said he knew it as a place of bad report. You did not hold your axe to his throat. He chose to come this way, rather than the pass of Rohan.”

Gimli breathed out and felt lighter.

“And besides, my reasons were not entirely noble.” In the dark, the white of Legolas’ teeth flashed as he grinned. “I also wanted to do something of my own.”

The haunting echo of Ori’s words sobered Gimli.

Legolas squeezed Gimli’s hand again, seeming to have caught the change in Gimli’s mood.

“They did not see _me,”_ Legolas said. “They saw a prince. A ‘symbol of hope’. They saw the elfling I no longer am, not the person who stood before them.” 

Gimli found that he could relate. Especially in the early days of Erebor, he had found himself in bed with several who wanted not Gimli, but the son of a Hero of Erebor. He had soon realised that his own personality, likes and dislikes mattered little to them. They cared only for the stories they could tell of having been with him. 

They cared only for the invitations to the official banquets where royalty and the Company would be present. They would be comely dams and handsome Dwarrow, but Gimli tired of such encounters, as soon as he understood their nature, which had taken several years to reconcile. 

Gimli had his fiery colour from his Firebeard Grandmother, and there were so many with such red hair in Erebor, that he could disguise himself without difficulty. He would dress in ordinary clothes, not the masterpieces Dwarfs from the Guilds gave as gifts to the Company and their families in the hope that word of their ‘patronage’ would increase sales. He would tie his hair into a simple workman’s braid, concealing the braids of his lineage.

Gimli had ‘real’ encounters while hiding his identity, and listening to Legolas he understood.

“They never saw me. They saw my father,” Legolas squeezed his hand again, “Or my title.” 

Legolas paused, then smiled in the dark. “They call me ‘Little Leaf’.”

Gimli snorted. Legolas’ laugh was brief and soft. 

“I see you, Legolas. In Dale I saw you, and again I see you.” He gently stroked Legolas’ hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details of Bombur & Nori’s 'stone sense' come from one of Thorinsmut’s stories, I can't remember which.
> 
> Thank you for reading and feedback is welcome!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yen - the Elven year/long-year yén, which is equivalent to 144 solar years. From Appendix D: LOTR
> 
> Keys to the city for Aylwyyn228, Cassunjey & de_la_cruz87, all extraordinary betas. I can't stop feeling overwhelmed with gratitude at the freely given time, energy and advice, by people who were once strangers, all for the love of fanfiction.

Legolas wished himself back home, safely in the palace. Or even back in Imladris, being snubbed and patronised by the urbane Elves of that realm. Legolas wished himself safely in the cave where they had found shelter after failing to traverse the Caradhras pass, safely with the Fellowship beside him. He wished himself anywhere but here.

Sometimes, while patrolling for Orcs and Spiders, or hunting for untainted game at the borders of the forest, Legolas’ group would sit around campfires. They shared tales of times when the forest had been bright, and the air sweet. But Legolas had only ever known Mirkwood. That is what all called the forest now. He hated the name, but it was true. And here, by the gates of Moria, it felt the same as the darkest parts of the forest.

The threshold of this Dwarven place carried a dark, cloying atmosphere. It clung to him, and felt so thick it was almost choking him. He could not tell its exact nature; it was simply something wrong. The notes of the Song here were wrong.

Perhaps all Elves felt thus, entering a Dwarven realm. It could be the hatred against Elves, held by countless generations of mortal lives. Perhaps it had collected and condensed until it could be felt, almost like a tangible thing.

Legolas did not wish to be here, with the deep, thrumming sense of wrongness. He was not bound by oath to be here. But it would go against his honour to flee. It would be cowardly to run now. To leave.

His own pledge meant that he would not abandon the Fellowship, here at the threshold of Moria. He would not abandon his friends.

But Legolas was already abandoning Bill. Mithrandir said that they had little choice, but even so, the decision felt callous. Surely, Dwarves had some way of sheltering the pack animals which inevitably accompanied supplies? Perhaps were facilities for the pony to remain, but not pass through. However, even then, surely it would be better for the creature to remain with the Dwarves? But despite his resolve in remaining with the Fellowship himself, Legolas could not summon the extra courage to confront Mithrandir about this. And besides, a part of Legolas was glad the pony could get away from this wrongness here.

Perhaps it affected only him, as an Elf. Though Gimli was not overfond of Bill, he did not know if Dwarves had a hatred for ponies as a group, in the same way they decried Elves. Legolas still did not know much about Dwarves in general. He and Gimli had begun to speak freely, and Gimli spoke of his friends, of his family, of his travels. But when the topic edged towards Dwarven customs and practices, Gimli steered the conversation in another direction. Legolas had not noticed at first, so skilful was he, but apart from when he had talked about the customs informing hair and beards of the Dwarves illustrated in Bilbo’s book, he had volunteered almost nothing about how Dwarves lived. He had explained the prayer stones, but in total, Dwarves remained a mystery to Legolas.

They unloaded the pony, and would carry the packs the last part of the way as they reached the final approach.

Legolas kissed Bill on the forehead, and thanked him for all he had done. Poor Sam, sniffed and wiped at his eyes. He was right to weep, thought Legolas; this was a prey creature. He was unlikely to survive alone. Yet Mithrandir decided the creature was better off roaming the wilds, than entering Moria. What was Mithrandir not saying?

Legolas did not belong in Moria either, and he was not sure of the welcome he would receive. Something about Gimli’s reassurances felt hollow.

“I do not like it here.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Legolas repented of saying them out loud. That stricken look on Gimli’s face. Legolas wished he could have Gimli smiling, laughing. To see that look in his eyes made Legolas feel - he did not know what to call it.

But no matter. Soon, Gimli would be among his kin, and would smile again.

Gimli’s voice took on a tone Legolas had heard long ago, from his tutor as he tried to tell Legolas what it was like in the West, across the Sundering Sea.

“It will take us four days to walk across, but we will be feted first. Music and banquets! You will get your rosy cheeks back, lads.” Gimli’s smile did not reach his eyes. “And call it not Moria! That means ‘black pit’! Nay! This is the Great Dwarrowdelf.” Gimli’s bluster felt strained and excessive.

Gimli had promised much, but would he have the authority, in a realm not his own, for his wishes to be followed? For many long ages had the hatred between Elves and Dwarves brewed. It would not be quickly overcome. The Dwarves here might care little that he and Gimli were in sympathy with one another - for the last few days at least. Legolas remembered how casually Gimli had called him ‘leaf-muncher’. There was no affection for Elves among his people. Dread crept up around Legolas once more. He was afraid to enter this Dwarven place.

Legolas remembered the lessons and admonitions Father had given prior to his departure. He had warned Legolas not to allow himself to be spoken down to by Elrond and his people, nor to allow his position to be demeaned. Legolas was to remember that he was Thranduilion. The honour accorded to Legolas reflected on his father. When he had ridden away from home, Legolas had not expected to find himself in a Dwarven realm, but all those lessons now applied tenfold.

From Gimli’s words, Legolas had pieced together that at least three of those here in Moria had travelled with the fallen king of the Dwarves. That Dwarf with the mournful eyes, imprisoned in the tower. Those three would remember Legolas as their jailor. And perhaps others would recognise him as Thranduilion, from the Battle of Five Armies. They had fought on the same side, but that had been happenstance when they united against a common foe at the last moments before battle was to commence.

And would the Dwarves here blame him for Gimli’s eyes? In Dale, Gimli’s eyes had been clear, laughing. Thank Eru, the days when Gimli’s eyes were filled with suspicion and animosity was now past, but they now were filled with such worry. Mortals knew how to find joy, even with the shadow of death hanging over them. Legolas was learning to understand this. But worry and sadness seemed to now linger in Gimli’s expression. When Gimli’s kin witnessed this change in him, would they blame weeks of travel with an Elf for stealing his joy?

The air around them was cold, but the surface of the water seemed to swirl with cold mists and blow towards Legolas in a way entirely unconnected with the breeze.

Both Gimli and Mithrandir seemed to be confident there was a way into this wall of stone. They could not both be suffering from the same delusion. The hobbits and even Boromir whispered their scepticism together. ‘Why can they not admit they are lost!’; but Legolas decided that if Mithrandir said this was the entrance, and if Gimli said such concealed doors existed, he would believe them both.

The Fellowship gathered around and stood aimlessly in the place the entrance should be. When Legolas and his brothers stood around, together with their friends, Galion would say they were ‘making the place look untidy.’ But Legolas was too tense for the memory to even raise a smile, and all his memories of Galion were now tinged with guilt.

They did not know how to get in.

At least, on this journey Legolas had learnt Westron words to swear out his frustration. Legolas muttered under his breath.

“Sodding water.”

Legolas could almost feel the heat of embarrassment radiating off Gimli.

Gimli’s ears were visible as he took off his helm, and they were red with discomfiture. Funny little ears.

The light was fading and the hobbits were hungry. Well, they talked always of food, but now it was the customary time for a meal, and their imaginations had been stirred by Gimli’s promises. Legolas heard Pippin and Merry have a whispered argument about whether it would be polite to ask for cheese at the feast if none was brought out.

“What I wouldn’t do to bite into a wheel of cheese.”

“You know it gives you bad dreams, Pip. And for all you know, the beds here will be stone mattresses or somesuch, so it will be no fun tossing and turning upon a slab of stone.”

“If we ever get in.” Grumbled Pippin, now a little louder.

As they waited, they all grew more uneasy.

Pippin began to make up songs about them all. They did not rhyme properly, the singing was not good, and they did not amuse. When Pippin began to sing of Wizards, Mithrandir snapped, “Of all the hobbits, Peregrin Took, you are the worst!”

But the admonishment silenced him for only a few moments and he started up again. He sang of Gimli’s axe. That it had cut off a thousand heads. When Legolas’ turn came up, he slipped into reverie.

He woke, unsure of how much time had passed, but daylight was now almost gone.

 _Elbereth._ Legolas wondered - would these Dwarves dare to try to kill him? To send a message, or something of that nature? Surely they would not be so foolish. Father would not hesitate to empty the entire forest to lay waste to their realm if they even attempted it. Legolas would defend himself here if they raised arms against him, but he did not like the thought of doing an injury to Gimli’s kin, or indeed, any of his people.

As he worried, Legolas thumbed the stone in his pocket and tried to find calm, waiting for the gates to open.

When the moon emerged from behind a cloud, Legolas gasped. That must be ithildin illuminating the gates of Moria.

Legolas had never seen ithildin before, and though he could not make out the words, he recognised the script as being Elven. Why was there Elven writing here? Seeing such runes here, in this Dwarven place made Legolas feel unsteady. As if the world had slightly shifted and now was tilted at a strange angle.

Legolas held his breath, wondering if someone from the group would ask him to read it; occasionally, Father insisted that he attempt to read something out loud. It was as if he hoped that Legolas would have finally overcome a stubborn resistance to the letters. It never worked.

But no one said anything to him about reading it. Mithrandir read the inscription aloud, and spoke of Celebrimbur and Narvi. Legolas had never heard of Celebrimbur before. He was sure he would have remembered a story of such a joint venture with a Dwarf. Legolas glanced across at Gimli, but could not read his face as Mithrandir spoke of the friendship between their peoples.

Legolas was more conscious now of how mortals measured time, though he wished he were not, as the long minutes stretched.

Many stones were strewn by the edges of the foul pool of water. Legolas thought for a moment that maybe he should stack some stones, in petition to Aulë. But Legolas noticed that Gimli did not do so, and Legolas did not wish to be presumptuous. If the gates opened as Legolas himself were stacking votive stones he could cause offence, spark an incident even. So he continued to sit - still and quiet.

Then Gimli spoke of the gem Legolas usually wore in his hair, but had left at home at Lastedir’s insistence. This mention of Dale threw Legolas off-balance again. Legolas regretted his peevish words but could not apologise. Fear gripped Legolas. Its talons had dug into him, pierced him.

Legolas was ashamed of how he had spoken, but the terror beneath the surface of his thoughts made it difficult to hold his tongue, all his restraint directed towards maintaining composure. He did not wish the first impression he gave to the Dwarves to be that of a fearful elfling.

As the time passed, Gimli smoked compulsively. The smoke curled around Legolas and he shivered at the caress of it as it touched his skin.

Again, Legolas took the stone from the pocket of his leather jerkin. He turned it over in his hand and ran his thumb over the runes. _Courage_ they read. Gold lettering formed a sharp contrast to the blue stone.

As an elfling, Lastedir had told him that it was a magic stone, and that it would keep him safe and stop him from being afraid. Once Legolas had realised this was just a childish fancy, he had put away both the notion and the stone, and had not thought about it for many years.

Legolas had been surprised when Lastedir had given the stone to him at their parting in Imladris. A part of Legolas was annoyed that his brother had been in his chambers, rifling through his private things to find it. And mixed feelings of annoyance at the invasion of his privacy, together with sentimentality at seeing the stone again after so long had mingled with Legolas’ distress over Lastedir and the others’ departure. He could see that Lastedir had planned it thus, so Legolas would not be distraught at their parting. Lastedir loved to laugh, but he was every bit as cunning as their father.

Now, as Mithrandir tried to find words of power to open the doors, Legolas was glad to be holding it, even though he knew it was just an ordinary stone, with no magic imbued within it.

Estel’s story of how he had found his place in the world gave Legolas food for thought. Having been brought up among Elves, cutting his hair must have been a great sacrifice. Although Legolas could not imagine a scenario where cutting his own hair would be required, he wondered if any great sacrifices would be needed of him in order that he might feel right in the world and with his conscience.

Then Mithrandir spoke, and his voice echoed against the stone walls.

The password was _mellon_. Friend. Legolas’ tension was reduced by a fraction. Surely, the Dwarves here would see the hypocrisy in harming an Elf who had entered through gates inscribed with what was essentially an invitation to all Elves. _Well, Elves who could read, or were in the company of those who could read Elvish script._

Would Legolas one day be able to casually come and go in Erebor, to visit his friend? Legolas checked himself. Perhaps when the Fellowship had succeeded, and they no longer had a common purpose, Gimli would wish only to speak well of Legolas to others, but not to retain a friendship formed under such unusual circumstances.

The gates opened, the ancient stone making a low growl as stone slid against stone. The darkness reached out. Legolas could smell death.

*

Legolas _knew_ they were in the presence of death, but the others did not seem concerned as the doors opened. Only Gimli’s face was - strange. His features had moved from proud anticipation to dismay in a blink.

Gimli shuffled into the gloom, and though everything in him told him to run, instead, Legolas followed.

Elbereth, so much death here. Legolas reeled.

Legolas had seen mass losses at the Battle of Five Armies. The shock of it - Legolas had not been able to speak for days afterwards.

Death of their own kind was something mortals were used to, Father had said. But Gimli’s reaction was not of one who was desensitised to death.

He looked down at the scattered remains. Legolas’ training as a warrior had taught him to identify different kinds of arrows, and he could recognise the cruel barbs of a Goblin arrow at once. Like Orcish arrows, the shafts were designed so as to be removed only by gouging and rending flesh. Legolas’ hand reacted without thought as he drew his mithril blade.

 _Thank Eru._ Boromir was commanding them to leave, and Legolas made to obey. But the cries of the hobbits preceded the sight of Frodo being dragged away.

 _Dear stars above_ \- it was a hideous face belonging to a creature which radiated intelligence and malice, but also the sluggishness of hibernation. Was this what Legolas had been feeling? Regardless, it had wrapped Frodo in malevolence and was dragging him away.

For long moments, Legolas could only watch.

Father had said that a premature death is not such a tragic thing for a mortal, as they were used to such things and death was their expected end, regardless of its manner. But Legolas could not feel detached as Frodo was dragged into the water before Legolas’ very eyes.

The brave hobbits were in the water, hacking at the creature, but all that did was increase its rage.

And that courage spurred Legolas into action.

Legolas sheathed his knife and strung an arrow. He had always been precise in his aim, but he had never before had to worry about avoiding a target. Elves knew to stay out of the line of another’s bow, but Frodo was being shaken like a leaf in a storm, and Legolas was afraid to hit him.

For a moment, again Legolas was paralysed by indecision. What if he struck Frodo accidentally? What if Legolas was the cause of Frodo’s death? As Legolas had caused Gilron’s death. But here, any inaction would be as murderous as a direct hit from one of his arrows.

Estel was also in the water now.

Legolas fired.

And again.

Even as the creature opened its mouth to consume - _oh Elbereth_ \- to consume Frodo, Legolas’ arrows flew. This creature was not hungry. Well, there was hunger, but there was something more than that. And how had it known to snatch, out of all of them, the Ringbearer? Was this creature what Legolas had been feeling as he sat by the foul water?

Mithrandir was chanting again.

Boromir, with all his strength, was attacking the tentacles and protecting the hobbits as they fought to free Frodo.

As Frodo fell into Boromir’s arms, the command came from Mithrandir for them to flee into the mines. Back into that black pit of death.

As the mortals fled into Moria, Legolas held his position and fired on the creature to give them time to escape.

 _Fuck_ \- where was Gimli? Was he lost in the water?

Legolas stepped into the pool to fire upon the creature.

Legolas had the speed to evade the creature if it came after him, but not if he approached it to look for Gimli in the murky waters. Legolas fired at it, many, many times as the others ran to safety - _so slowly they ran_.

He heard Gimli’s cry - from within! _Thank Aulë_.

He turned, and began to follow.

“Legolas! Into the cave!” came Boromir’s call.

That moment hung in the air.

Legolas could see the entryway collapsing.

Legolas could see they would be trapped in there. He did not have time to carry out any of the others.

_Or maybe just one. Maybe the Ringbearer._

But alone, Legolas still had time to run, to escape into the fresh air. He could leave them here. Perhaps he could even dig them out himself - no, he was strong, but the thick slabs of the door would be beyond his ability to move. He could run back to Imladris. He could run day and night and send for help.

Such courage the little hobbits had shown - they did not hesitate in drawing their swords and running to Frodo’s defence. Would he be shamed by their valour? Would these small people dare to go where Thranduilion would not?

Legolas ran, and behind him the entrance collapsed.

They were sealed in.

Gimli had erred in encouraging them to seek this path. But the others, who were more clear-headed, not driven by longing for kin - they should have resisted more strongly. As an Elf, and given their previous animosity, Legolas’ voicing of an objection would have looked like simple prejudice. Like the hobbits, Legolas knew only what he had been told by the others about this place.

Mithrandir should have objected more strongly, overruled the Ringbearer even. The fate of this realm could not have been a complete secret to Mithrandir if even Estel had spoken of the ‘ill-report of this place’.

Estel and Boromir’s rivalry had perhaps influenced Estel’s decision to come here. Perhaps Estel’s objection to the path of Rohan was only due to Boromir’s strong advocacy for that path. Estel warned of the dangers of travelling so close to Isengard, but that was a known danger, as opposed to this unknown peril awaiting them.

Gimli’s sound of anguish was that of a wounded creature. Legolas wanted to go to him, but he knew that like a creature, he might lash out unknowingly, so he stayed back.

As the reality of their situation sank in, Gimli once again lost all the colour in his face.

Legolas had seen mortals wail like this before, on the field of battle. He had seen Men standing still, and staring, unable to move. He had seen them do this - to be ill in this way.

Such mortals were usually soon cut down by the enemy. Though they could not see nor hear any foes nearby, they were not safe.

Mithrandir’s words in Silvan floated across to him. “Take heart Thranduilion and have courage - all is not yet lost.” Mithrandir began to lead them deeper into the darkness.

Gimli seemed catatonic. Like an Elf on the verge of fading. Legolas had seen that only once himself. Gimli’s eyes were frozen pools with no life to be seen.

Gimli’s axe lay at his feet.

Legolas did not feel contempt, nor did he see it as cowardice to be condemned. If Legolas had grown up hearing of Imladris, then finally arrived, expecting a gracious welcome, but instead was met with dead remains - it would be a tremendous shock.

“Your axe, Gimli,” Legolas said softly.

Still in a daze, Gimli picked it up, then Legolas pulled Gimli to walk.

Most of their packs were lost in the rubble and they had also lost all the firewood Bill had carried. The mortals needed food and water, even if much time would pass before Legolas himself felt the lack. Legolas could not remember for how long mortals could survive without sustenance. And they could not afford to stray from the path looking for water. Cold had nearly ended the hobbits - when would the effects of the lack of food set in? When they emerged, Legolas would hunt again.

Sam tried to speak to Gimli, but he did not seem to hear him.

Legolas kept close but did not disturb him.

As they walked, Legolas was startled by the press of Boromir’s hand on his shoulder.

“My brother, Faramir, did not like the dark either when he was younger. I will walk by you, Legolas. We shall emerge soon.”

Hours later they stopped.

Silently, Gimli shared Dwarf bread from his pack, and they washed it down with rationed water. Legolas did not take any, in order to leave more for the hobbits. A part of him wanted to try and lighten the sombre mood, to maybe say something about the ‘fabled hospitality of the Dwarves’, and that they were indeed having a Dwarven meal. But he recognised it as a terrible, terrible idea. It would only cause pain. There was no humour to be found in the shattered expectations. And Legolas knew that if for any reason he were to laugh now, he might be unable to stop easily - the laughter of distress would surely consume him.

After eating, they rose again, and they walked in the dark, the way lit only by Mithrandir’s staff. Legolas recognised votive stones strewn along their path - _would Aulë hear an Elf?_

_Was the destruction of this place a punishment by the Valar? Was that why Moria had fallen?_

If Legolas restored a prayer tower, would the original prayer be heard or would Aulë turn his ear to Legolas’ own plea? If the original petitioner were dead, perhaps it left the stones as a blank sheet. But they would most likely be asking for the same thing. For safety, and for their friends to be saved.

After what seemed like hours of walking, Mithrandir called a halt. Legolas sat leaning against a wall, as the hobbits curled on the rough ground by his feet, over which Legolas had laid his own cloak.

As he watched the hobbits sleep, Legolas recalled a conversation he had had with Frodo in Bilbo’s rooms. “We have to decide what to do with the time that is given to us,” Frodo had said. Legolas had been granted immortality by the Valar. But would countless ages stretching forth have any sweetness left in them if he lived with the knowledge that he had not done all in his power to enable the Fellowship to achieve its object? The mortals had only a blink, but Legolas would do all he could to ensure they lived out their short years to the completeness of their allotted span. Even if it meant cutting short his own time in Arda.

The duty of his task and affection for the hobbits had been the first thing to bind him to the Fellowship, but now each one of those here was dear to him. He had known them for such a short time, but it felt as if the time did not matter. Something fundamental in him had connected, with all of them, in different ways. Only Frodo had been somewhat distant and withdrawn, but Legolas’ own pledge bound him to assist him to complete their task.

**

On the second day of walking, Boromir tried to speak to Gimli.

“Osgiliath was once a jewel of my kingdom - a place of light and beauty and music - I know what it is to have a stronghold fall into enemy hands - this is what we are fighting for - to restore such places.”

Gimli seemed to look right through him.

Estel spoke to Boromir. “Leave him to his grief for now. He has hope that his kin still live.”

Boromir’s expression hardly changed, but was somehow flooded with scepticism.

Estel lowered his voice and responded to Boromir’s unspoken words. “His hopes may be shattered soon, but for now -“

They walked, stopped for food, slept and rose again.

On the third day in this place, Legolas had taken rest as they walked. Even as he walked, he reveried recalling the day of Merry’s birthday when they had all felt so hopeful. He had felt so content walking with Gimli under the clear skies.

Now here, in the dark, Mithrandir led them through a vast open space. It was like a forest of stone trees. Then, for the first time in days Gimli spoke, saying it had once been glorious. And Gimli sang. The anguish poured out from every word and Legolas was moved to tears at the depth of sorrow he conveyed in his deep, rumbling notes.

Terror had numbed Legolas to the passage of time, but brief moments pierced him such as Mithrandir’s warning that Gollum was in this place.

They sat in the long shadows cast by the light of Mithrandir’s staff as he tried to remember the path.

He spoke with Gimli and was comforted. Legolas could not help but tremble as Gimli guided his hand to the stone. This must be the first time since the days of Celebrimbor and Narvi that an Elf had wandered in here. Legolas was sorry to see it thus reduced, and he spoke to the stone. And as clearly as any of their whispers, it called out to him.

Mithrandir boomed out that he had found the way. Legolas pushed down the fear that they would wander here until the mortals perished, then he and Mithrandir would wander here, for countless ages. To distract himself, he felt the stones. They were different from living things, but in their own way they _were_ living, and as Gimli had said, bore him no ill will, only carried a burden of sorrow. He talked to them of the stone in the palace, he shared memories of happier times. Mithrandir had said there was only one more day in this place. Unless they were lost was the unspoken subtext.

As they prepared to sleep, Gimli spoke again. “I am sorry to have brought you here. But this is a large realm. The Settlers may be safe elsewhere.”

Estel and Mithrandir exchanged a look over Gimli’s head.

Gimli continued. “When we get to them, I have a few things I need to say to you all. For now, I wish to apologise for the first impressions, but I am sure all will be well.” Gimli turned away from them.

Mithrandir said that he was sorry to find the Dwarrowdelf thus. He also was not eating, and as the others finished the meagre meal Mithrandir said he had hoped to be greeted by his old friends ‘Balin, Ori and Óin.’

Gimli winced at the names, and they all remained silent, allowing him the hope that they may still be found.

That night, Legolas could not bear the thought of Gollum creeping in the dark. Perhaps he would recognise Legolas and want revenge for the imprisonment. Legolas would sit by Gimli.

After three days uncombed, he was not yet dishevelled, but he had not the heart to comb in this place. He could not feel relaxed enough.

Legolas offered what little comfort words could as he sat with Gimli, and found himself receiving the same, with his hand safe and warm in Gimli’s.

Legolas felt seen, but not exposed. He would love to bask under that gaze - but it would be for only a blink. Legolas had the impression that though Dwarves lived longer than Men, it would be little more than a single yen before Gimli died.

Soon after the Battle of Five Armies, Tauriel had sailed. It was unusual for a Silvan Elf to wish to sail, and she had not spoken of it to Legolas. There had been whispers of ‘unnatural mixing’ and that she was fading for a Dwarf, but there was no proof of that. That such a thing was possible.

But he and Gimli could be friends.

As Gimli sat with his hand in his, Legolas sang softly of the trees and flowing water. Of blue skies and dancing leaves as they had seen as they travelled together. Gimli would not be able to understand the Sindarin, and he probably did not even like such things, but he looked more tranquil than these past few days, as he sat and rested throughout the watch of the night.

“Gimli, where is your pipe?”

“I - I must have dropped it at the entrance. Did you want to smoke, Legolas?”

“No, dead and burnt plants do not soothe me. But I thought it might give you comfort.”

The stretches of silence between them felt warm.

“Gimli,” Legolas said into the dark. “I am sorry. I should not have started to quote that nasty saying to you. I do not think -”

Gimli cut him off. “The only apology that should be spoken in this place right now is mine, for bringing you here - I had plans -” It looked as if it hurt too much to continue talking.

Gimli’s breathing was fast. He began to speak again. His tone sounded formal. “Prince Legolas,” Gimli said, then paused.

Legolas stilled. He felt overwhelmed by the intimacy of Gimli using his name after so long of being ‘Elf’, or ‘pointy-ears’ or worse. To be called by his name in this dark felt so intimate. Legolas should have told him his name in Dale, so that he could have heard it whispered in the dark then. Not now, surrounded by danger and death, and seven others.

“Legolas - I apologise - “

Legolas gently pressed a finger on Gimli’s lips. “Enough of apologies. When we are under the stars, we can speak any apologies needed.”

They sat in silence as the others lay deep in sleep. Mithrandir’s staff provided a dim glow as he sat, presumably in reverie.

Gimli spoke again. “Ori is my brother - we do not share the same parents - but we grew up together. We helped raise each other.” Gimli took out a threadbare scarf from his pack. “Tomorrow is our last day here.” He swallowed. “If we come across them, I want him to see me wearing his scarf. To know I have not forgotten him.”

They drew together in the dark.

“Legolas, I need to tell you something.” He drew in a breath. “I owe you a debt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, snatches of movie dialogue here too. A chunk of it is Boromir’s Osgiliath speech
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment on something you liked about this chapter or ask a question about something you want to know <3<3<3


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used a lovely turn of phrase from legend4time in last week’s comments - details in endnotes.
> 
> Thank you to my betas. Aylwyyn228, Cassunjey and de_la_cruz87 - they carried me through this chapter. Without their encouragement there might not be much of a story at all, so once again, heartfelt thanks.
> 
> Edit: No update this Saturday (30th January 2021), aiming for next Saturday (6th February 2021)

“Legolas, I need to tell you something.”

Legolas’ mind raced, as did his heart. What did Gimli wish to speak of? Was he to put words to these shared silences, shared breaths?

“I owe you a debt.”

Legolas exhaled softly. He did not know if the confusion he was feeling was only due to Gimli’s unexpected words, or due to the fact that Gimli had not said - something else. Legolas drew breath to speak, wanting to say again he did not wish to speak of apologies, but something in Gimli’s eyes gave him pause, and Legolas fell back into silence.

Gimli took off his helmet. 

Legolas stilled. Since the gates of Moria, Gimli had not removed his helm, even when taking rest. 

“The dungeons, in Mirkwood - ” Gimli began to say.

_Oh Eru. Was Gimli now going to list all the old feuds and recite reasons for past enmity between their people? After this closeness, a star in a dark night, was he going to recite a list of the thorns and brambles between them, why they could not be - friends?_

Legolas braced himself.

“The Dwarves your father had in his dungeons eighty years ago - ”

They locked eyes. This was one of the subjects they had danced around. Legolas was caught between curiosity at how Gimli viewed that history, and dread that Gimli would wish to raise a reminder that he was Thranduilion, and all that name meant to a Dwarf.

“They were my family,” said Gimli.

Gimli put his helm and gloves back on.

Gimli did not break the silence for long moments, and Legolas could feel the stone straining, as if trying to eavesdrop.

So was this going to be a discussion of the responsibility Legolas bore for their capture and imprisonment?

“We both know, Legolas, that the Elvenking would have let them rot there.”

 _So not ‘your father’. Gimli was distancing Legolas from that connection, even if only through his wording._

Legolas knew Gimli’s words for truth. Father would never have let them free. Legolas would not lie and say otherwise.

If Legolas spoke at this moment, he was sure he would offend, so the best thing to do was to remain silent.

Gimli continued. 

“And if they had escaped alone, it is unlikely that they would have survived the Orcs. In the barrels, they were so vulnerable to attack. Kili - ” Gimli paused. “There was only one ranged weapon and no arrows. Each may have had a single throw of an axe, but after that - “

What he left unspoken was clear.

“You saved their lives. You saved my father’s life, Legolas.”

Legolas inclined his head in acknowledgement, but he could feel that Gimli had not yet finished talking. One of the hobbits turned in their sleep, and a few more moments passed until he was still again. 

“Legolas, their natural lives would have ended in the Elvenking’s dungeons, or they would have been killed by the Orcish ambush as they were helpless, floating in the River Running in those barrels without your protection. You and the other Elf, who we know has sailed.”

He pushed aside thoughts of Tauriel, even as he wondered how a Dwarf would know she had sailed. But he needed to focus on the main trail of this discussion.

Legolas broke the long silence to say only, “I did what I thought was right.”

“Aye.”

The silence stretched again, and Legolas wondered if Gimli would say anything else. As he waited, Legolas scanned the dark for any sign of Gollum.

Gimli cleared his throat. 

“Because of what you did, those who you saved owe you their lives.” 

The silence was now strained, and Gimli broke it. “If you were to kill them, there would be no penalty, as their lives are in your hands.” 

_Kill them!?_ Now Gimli was being absurd.

Gimli could not meet Legolas’ eye, and with the heel of his boot Gimli scratched at the grit on the ground they sat upon. 

“If you choose not to raise your hand against them, they still owe you their lives, or a portion of their wealth.” Gimli now rushed his words out. “Anything you ask of them, they must give. Legolas, they are Heroes of Erebor. You could ask for most of the wealth of Erebor and it would be yours.”

Gimli was now breathing heavily, and Legolas waited to see if he would say anything else. He looked at the Fellowship, all sleeping, apart from Mithrandir who was keeping watch on the far side of the group. He had his back to them.

Gimli now whispered. “You would be the wealthiest being in Arda.”

Gimli closed his eyes and breathed quickly.

Legolas recalled his discussion with Mithrandir, of how much store mortals seemed to set by coin.

“How can one put a value on a life, Gimli? Is this how Dwarves see life? That it has a monetary value?” 

Gimli bristled. “No, Elf. But those are our ways. It is called a Life Debt.”

Legolas remembered Gimli saying those words at Holin, as they hid from Crebain, but Gimli had not expanded upon it, as they had addressed many other patches of briar which had lain between them. He had not mentioned it again and Legolas had not wished to probe. Now, he listened as Gimli continued to speak. 

“We believe in actions over words. To show the depths of their gratitude, whatsoever you ask, they are bound to grant it to you, Elf. They wish to acknowledge that without your intervention, they would not be living the lives they have led. Erebor would not be standing proud.”

Gimli spoke over him as Legolas began to talk. “Say nothing now, Legolas. You must wait a month from learning of the Life Debt to speak your desire.”

It felt as if viscous, unwanted spider webs were being pushed aside, leaving an open, safe clearing. Gimli’s teeth worried at the beard by the corner of his mouth, then he continued to speak. “Before, I had thought Gandalf had told you. But I can see from your face this is your first time to hear this and that you knew not of the Life Debt.”

Gimli closed his eyes again, and continued to speak. “In Rivendell, when you said ‘let’s forget everything that came before’, I thought you knew of and were dismissing the Life Debt, and thus declaring the lives of my kin to have no value.”

Legolas began to protest, but again, Gimli cut him off. “But I know that it is not so. You did not know.”

Gimli spoke in a whisper that, even sitting so close, a Man would probably not hear. “I was wroth with you after that - or rather, even more wroth than I already was, because I thought you had dismissed their lives as worthless.”

Legolas did not wish to say the wrong thing. He did not wish to cause offence as he could see the seriousness of the matter, but he did not want new misunderstandings and secrets to lie between them, not now that they had found this place of openness. It felt as if minutes had passed before Legolas was content that he had formulated the words correctly. 

“Gimli, why are you telling me this now?”

When Gimli did not answer, after a few moments Legolas pressed, and said again, “Why did you choose now to tell me?”

Gimli’s voice cracked. “For many years we did not know the identities of the Elves who had rescued them. We knew one was the Elf who sailed - from a letter.”

Legolas’ face must have asked the question, as Gimli added, “The letter was to the mother of one of the Dwarves who had died. They had - cared for each other.”

Legolas’ mind was now filled with thoughts of this letter; his hurt at the thought that she had not confided in him before, was pushed aside by the understanding that sharing such a dangerous secret as a friendship with a Dwarf, was not easily shared with the son of the king. If father had found out she was involved in their escape - . Then, after the battle, Tauriel had barely spoken, and by the time she sailed, some had thought she would fade before even reaching the grey havens. They had all assumed it to be grief for the few unfortunate Elves who had fallen in battle that day. Now, Legolas wondered if she had been mourning a lover. A Dwarf.

Gimli’s voice cracked, interrupting Legolas’ thoughts. 

“We did not know who the other was who had rescued them. When an unknown rescuer is owed a debt we call them ‘an agent of Mahal’. But I found out in Rivendell that _you_ were the Elf who had freed my father from your - from the dungeons. Bilbo recognised you, and knew you to be the one who had saved them.”

“Bilbo?” said Legolas, in a tone of surprise. “Did your father not recognise me, Gimli? I am unchanged.” Legolas recalled how Bilbo had let Legolas know that the white-haired old Dwarf had been among those rescued so long ago. But he had thought the Dwarves would have recognised him. 

“When my father first saw you I told him you were the Elf from Dale. He was - not happy. And then when you and your brother were introduced as Thranduilion, your father’s identity caused consternation.” A resolute look came over Gimli’s features. “No, we are being honest. He was furious. His anger at the memory of his imprisonment filled him also and he did not recognise you as his rescuer. I would say it was time and anger which clouded his powers of recognition, but the truth is he can not easily tell one Elf from another.” Gimli shrugged apologetically. “It was Bilbo who recognised you. My father simply forgot your face.”

“Gimli, can _you_ tell _my_ face from that of another Elf?” Legolas held his breath for the answer.

The corners of Gimli’s mouth quirked up slightly. “Aye, lad. I can. I would know your face anywhere.” 

Even in this dark, light seemed to fill Legolas’ heart.

Gimli roughly cleared his throat. “I should have spoken to you sooner, but then I thought you already knew of the custom and of what was owed. When it was clear you did not know the ways of Dwarves, honour demanded that I speak. I have been anxious to - express my gratitude and acknowledge the debt.”

Gimli pressed on, his gloved hand now clenching and flexing. “I had planned to first speak to Balin, Ori and my uncle. I wanted to tell you in a way more befitting your status, and the status of those you saved. Maybe after the feast - “ Gimli’s face was clouded in pain. “Seeing these bones in Dwarrow armour shouts a reminder of how close death could come upon me, suddenly, at any time.”

Legolas did not want to hear those words.

Gimli’s voice was strained. “Gandalf says tomorrow we should reach Durin’s bridge and leave this place. It - it could be like the entrance by the Doors of Narvi - of Celebrimbor and Narvi - not safe.”

With a supreme effort Gimli continued to speak. “You were right, Legolas. Not to like it here, and if I were to die here -”

Gimli clenched his fists even as Legolas battled a wave of nausea then collected himself.

The painful silence stretched.

Gimli spoke again. “The only others who know of what is owed are Bilbo and Gandalf. I know you do not know the ways of Dwarves, and if I did not survive, you might never have known what is owed to you. Even if you saw Bilbo again - he is very old.” Gimli looked as if he were forcing himself to say this, “His mind wanders, he might not remember to say anything to you about it. And Gandalf, for all his meddling ways, has not intervened to tell you all these years, and he might continue in silence. It would be wrong for you not to know.”

Legolas wanted to reach out his hand again, but it was as if in the air around them, Gimli had built up a wall. Gimli looked as if he were bracing himself for a blow. As if he thought Legolas might look at him and say, ‘you’re right, Gimli; the lives of those naugrim are worthless.’

Legolas hoped his eyes conveyed all that he could not say. “Gimli, I will abide by the customs of your people. We will speak of the matter again after a cycle of the moon has passed.”

Gimli nodded, the glint of his helm flashing in the dark.

Legolas was not sure how to bring this up, but he did not want the matter to hang between them, incomplete. Legolas tried to be delicate about the matter. “Gimli, I know that some of those I saved are no longer alive.”

Gimli looked up sharply.

“They died in the battle.” Legolas put his hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “I speak of your king and his two heirs.”

Gimli sagged minutely, almost as if he were relieved.

Gimli now forced out words. “Yes. They died.” The silence was painful. “But it was days after you saved them. You still saved them. It counts. They died later, in battle as you said. A debt is still owed. It rests upon their heir to pay.”

Legolas meant no disrespect but he had to make clear his feelings. “But Gimli, I do not want to be paid for doing what was the right thing for my own conscience.”

“I know Mirkwood saw them as wandering vagabonds, wishing to stir up Smaug’s lair and cause trouble,” Gimli said.

It sounded almost as if Gimli wanted an argument. Legolas knew better now how to handle this mood. Legolas remained silent.

Again, Gimli whispered, the strain in his eyes creeping into his voice. The fight had left his voice. “It would be an insult to us to claim nothing. It would be saying our lives have no value, if you dismissed it without payment.”

Legolas should probably remain silent. Gimli was in a clear state of distress. Legolas did not agree with the grim mathematics, but would not insult their ways, and how they viewed the world. He would not argue about whether this ‘Life Debt’ was right or wrong. It was clearly important to Gimli, and he was right. They did not know what awaited them on the morrow.

Then the thought came to him suddenly.

“Gimli, why are _you_ the one telling me this? I would have remembered if you were there. If it is as you say, then it is your father’s debt, not yours.”

Gimli moved uncomfortably. Legolas recognised the tug on his braid. He moved for the pocket where he kept his pipe, then, remembering it was lost, put his hand on his knee. “I will speak plainly, Legolas. My father hates Elves. He would - he would dishonour himself by not acknowledging the debt to you.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’.” Gimli muttered.

He continued, “In so doing, he would bring shame on his Line and on our family. Legolas, anything you demand, I will pay. Money or goods, or services - the value of his life.” 

Gimli’s voice betrayed the emotion he was struggling to control. 

“But Gimli, I do not need wealth.”

“You would be the richest Elf on Arda.”

“I already am.”

“I do not mean your father’s piles of wealth. I meant _you_ would be rich. In your own right.”

Gimli would still not say ‘Thranduil’, Legolas noted. And how could Legolas explain? All belonged to the king. He kept them safe and provided for them. Everything they needed, they had. There was no need for coin. They had everything they needed, and there was no lack.

Legolas tried to put his thoughts into words. “No, I know father has many coins and gems. But I meant I am already wealthy. I have my family and my friends. My forest. People who care about me.” He threw a sidelong glance at Gimli.

“I am already wealthy,” Legolas repeated. “I do not need anything else. But I do not dismiss the claim, and we shall speak of this again, at the appointed time.”

Gimli’s glove was off again, and his warm, blunt fingers gripped Legolas’ own.

Gimli repeated what he had said before. “Legolas, the customary period is a month to consider the matter. I will also tell Lord Balin, and my uncle and Ori.”

Legolas nodded.

Legolas carefully stacked three stones atop each other, aware of Gimli’s gaze. 

Gimli then squeezed his eyes tightly, and nodded.

Sitting up against the wall, with his hand still in Gimli’s Legolas slipped into reverie. He could feel the tension in Gimli’s hand throughout the night, even as he walked in days past. Legolas relived the rescue and the fight against the Orcs. Before that day, Legolas had never had to fight like that. Always, he had been part of a numerous troop of several others. He remembered standing upon the Dwarves in their barrels as they moved down the river, defending them against the Orcs on the riverbanks. 

A part of Legolas had been annoyed at the need to keep the whole adventure secret. He had been proud of his skill and had wished to speak of his exploits to his brothers. But those had been his thoughts at the time. Now he was simply glad to have done the right thing.

When the sounds of the others stirring woke him, Legolas looked across to Gimli, who was now in quiet discussion with Mithrandir and sharing a pipe. He did not think Gimli had slept at all. Beneath the mass of his hair and beard, Legolas could see the blue of the threadbare scarf Gimli now wore.

As the group gathered, Legolas only pretended to drink from the flask which was passed to him. His throat was now dry and scratched, but he did not need the water in the same way the mortals did. He said he was not hungry for the small ration of Dwarf bread passed his way, and he divided the piece between Merry and Pippin. Gimli’s words silently echoed as they ate. _‘Roaring fires! Malt beer! Ripe meat off the bone!’_ Mithrandir did not eat either, and Legolas saw that he did not swallow after pressing the flask to his lips. Their eyes met in understanding. 

“We will be out soon, Little Leaf,” Mithrandir said to him softly, in Silvan. 

Since they entered Moria, Legolas had neither eaten nor drunk anything. Legolas had never felt hunger pangs before, and had never felt thirst like this. He knew that unlike the mortals, even with privations his body would not fail him, but nevertheless, it was deeply unpleasant. Legolas wondered if Mithrandir had ever felt hungry and thirsty before today.

As the Fellowship prepared to start for the day, Mithrandir pretended to ‘find’ a stone behind Pippin’s ear. The hobbits flashed weary smiles. Legolas remembered Mithrandir’s visits to the Woodland Realm, and how he used to do the same to him when he was an elfling. He’d usually ‘find’ an acorn. ‘You need to bathe more thoroughly, Little Leaf,’ Lastedir would laugh. Perhaps Mithrandir was recalling the same memories; he winked at Legolas, then turned to stride into the darkness, his staff lighting the way.

Their footsteps echoed as they set off, and Legolas remembered Mithrandir’s words. “There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world.” Legolas thought he referred to the wrongness in the Song within this place. Surely, Mithrandir also could feel it. But Mithrandir had not spoken of it, perhaps he did not wish to give voice to it.They did not speak of it. For what was there to say? They could not go back. 

This was their final march and they would be out today. Who knew what awaited them at the other entrance to Moria? Perhaps this was where the hostile forces here were gathered. Even if Gimli found his kin in a small enclave of safety, Legolas did not think they would be staying in Moria for long.

Legolas did not think they would find Gimli’s kin, but following Estel’s example, he allowed him that hope. Mithrandir offered what succour he could by adding his own hopes to Gimli’s, and avoiding what seemed like the obvious truth of their fate. Even Pippin held his tongue on the matter. But that may have had something to do with the sharp elbowing Merry had given him when he had opened his mouth to speak, soon after entering Moria, and as Gimli had spoken of his hopes of still finding his kin safe and well.

And then, that morning, they did find Gimli’s kin.

Legolas’ joy at seeing daylight was reduced to nothing at the sharp sound of Gimli’s despair. Gimli keened beside the tomb of Balin, his cousin and Lord of this place. 

Gimli covered his face with his cloak and stood weeping. 

Pain flashed over Mithrandir’s face as he read the inscription on the stone tomb. 

Legolas reeled at the thought. Within it lay one who was once alive, now forever still. Would Gimli himself be entombed in such a manner one day? All the mortals here would die one day.

When Mithrandir read the words of the book which had lain in one skeleton’s arms, Gimli’s knees buckled, and he held himself up, supported by the tomb. As much as he wanted to gather Gimli up, he did not know if that would be welcomed, so Legolas remained where he was.

Mithrandir read on. “A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out. We cannot get out.” 

Mithrandir took off his hat and covered his eyes. He whispered words over the bones which lay beside the tomb, and then said to them all.

“We cannot linger here.” 

As Legolas took in the scene, the death, Gimli’s anguish, he felt all the bitterness he had not felt since his mother had sailed so many years ago.

Untainted meat could be caught at the borders of the forest, but not from the side near Dol Guldur where the Shadow was strongest. 

Once, when Legolas had been an elfling still, newly permitted to travel deep into the forest with his brothers and their troops, he had decided he wanted to show off his skill with a bow. He had disobeyed the injunction against hunting there. He had wanted to be like them. To hunt and provide. 

Legolas had fired his arrow and struck a dark grey squirrel in the neck. Its fur was matted and looked almost black. The others had been silent, and not praised his skill the way they usually did when he made a difficult shot. 

Legolas should have known something was wrong at the sight of the sluggish dark flow of the blood, but he had never hunted before, and thought that might be normal. Still in silence, the others had watched him as he skinned the creature inexpertly and placed it next to the meat already cooking. 

The foul smell as the creature roasted did give Legolas some cause for concern, but he thought that may be the smell of the guts he had not yet rinsed out for use. The others had all declined a portion of the squirrel, even his brothers, and this had irked him, but he was still proud of his catch. Then Legolas had bitten into it, and the taste - the bitterness was between anything he had ever experienced.

Only then had Opherion chastised him, saying the creature had died in vain. With hot, choking tears, Legolas had buried the wasted carcass. Even the pelt had to be discarded, and with his hands he dug a shallow grave for it.

The bitter taste in his mouth was the same as he watched Gimli continue to weep, and Mithrandir’s eyes brim with sorrow.

Mithrandir laid the book on the tomb. Legolas took in the dark brown stains on its cover. _Blood._ Mortals relied on records, not on memory, and this book was important to them. 

Legolas’ thoughts were interrupted when Pippin tripped over a fallen pile of votive stones. Attempting to touch the armour on a skeleton by a well, he instead knocked it over, causing a cascade of sound. As Mithrandir berated the young hobbit, Legolas could not help but feel sympathetic.

“Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity!”

Pippin looked crestfallen, like a wilted sapling, and Legolas knew the feeling. Pippin was not many years removed from infancy, and Legolas was thinking of what words of comfort he could offer when the drums began.

Legolas put his hand over the stone, secure in his pocket. He wanted Opherion - he could always get him out of the trouble he got himself into. _Please, Ada._

*

Estel had found a bow in the hands of one of these unfortunates. The string had disintegrated with time, but Legolas restrung it with his own hair, and they now waited before the barred doors.

Estel held the bow in the Rivendell style, and in a beginner’s grip. Legolas would have laughed and teased if this were not so deathly serious.

Legolas could see the tremble in Estel’s hands, and Boromir nervously twirled his broadsword in anticipation - as if to remind himself he possessed sufficient skill to wield it.

Legolas could hear so many of them coming.

He wanted to call to the hobbits, _‘vanya!’_ in this burial chamber, this chamber full of death.

 _Fuck_ _._ The things he had taught the hobbits would not work here. There was nowhere to run in this room. Nowhere to hide. They would have to remember their lessons from Gimli and the Men.

Thank the Valar, this room was flooded in sunlight. It would hinder the enemy. 

Legolas was confident that he could survive, but - _Oh Eru!_ The others. His friends.

Surely, they could not all stand? 

Perhaps Aulë would hear Gimli’s pleas. 

As the creatures approached the doors, Legolas did not have the luxury of time to make another tower of stone. Perhaps the tower he had made last night would suffice.

The last time Legolas had been this close to death was almost a hundred years ago. He was used to fighting with other Elves, who could protect him. The Wargs they faced had been dangerous creatures, but a handful of the beasts against all of them had led to a sound and certain defeat. The only loss had been a rent in his cloak, now expertly mended. Legolas brushed his fingers over the fine stitching then readied his bow.

Legolas tried not to become overwhelmed by the tension. He calmed himself with the thought that if an unlucky arrow found him, at least he would die with sunlight upon his back.

His arrows found their mark, and he spared a moment, the beat of a moth’s wing, to register surprise at Estel’s accuracy and skill. As the enemy forced the door open, Gimli’s two throwing axes flew, and found targets.

The Goblins behind tripped over the fallen members of their cohort, and as they scrambled up, Gimli was upon them before they were fully upright. The spray of black blood filled the room with a rancid odour.

Once again, the hobbits showed size was no indicator of spirit as they charged into the fray.

*

In the eye of the battle, both Legolas and Gimli fought to protect the hobbits who had launched themselves at the enemy. The small hobbits did as Gimli had shown them, cutting ankles and tendons in the legs.

Again, Gimli and Legolas moved in concert, and Legolas could not help but exalt in the fierce song of battle - the terrible joy of slaughter. There was black blood everywhere, but no pools of red, thank Aulë.

*

Then lumbered in a Cave Troll. It was as ugly as it was in the illustrations in his tutor’s books. 

All paused at the fearsome sight of it.

None of their weapons were having an impact.

Gimli’s throwing axe glanced off it.

 _Fuck!_ It nearly had Gimli. 

Without thought, Legolas climbed onto its back to fire a killing shot to the base of its skull. But it merely staggered away, still alive.

It almost crushed Gimli as it stumbled and swung its crude weapon.

Gimli did not pause to acknowledge how close he had come to death, and he set to beheading several of the Goblins as quickly as the hobbits hobbled them. It was as if he wished to make true Pippin’s nonsense song of the ‘axe which had cut off a thousand heads’. 

Everything was happening too quickly for Legolas to know what to feel, and as Gimli saved Estel from a blow which would have been fatal, they did not take even a moment to acknowledge how close death had come, and continued to fight with all their strength.

Gimli hacked at a neck, narrowly missing a cruel blade as he did so. 

In this battle it felt as if only Gimli’s stubbornness was keeping him alive. Gone was the elegance of his training forms as he fought furiously.

The Troll swung its arm and Boromir fell limp against a wall. For a few beats Legolas’ heart could not catch a rhythm, and as he fought, he tried to make his way to his friend, but blades and clubs got in his way. Only when Boromir stirred and got on to his feet again could Legolas focus once more.

It was too crowded for his bow to be effective, so Legolas danced through the surge of Goblins with his knife in hand - his hand now black with blood. He assessed the room with a warrior's eye. There were only a handful of Goblins remaining, and Legolas felt hopeful. TheTroll was slow and lumbering, even the mortals could evade it. Together with Gimli he worked to defeat the remaining few goblins.

*

From the corner of his eye Legolas saw Frodo struck. By the Troll. 

He could not have survived that.

Reeling, Legolas tried to cut through a path, to get to him. 

So easily could the Valar allow a mortal life to end. Did they even know of this. Did they even care?

Legolas’ vision was blurred with tears as he drew near to the small figure, lying so still, and he flew into a frenzy, slashing and hacking.

The Troll barred the path to the Ringbearer, and now, they all fell upon it. 

At any other time, Legolas would have sat back to admire Mithrandir’s elegance in dual wielding, as he fought with his staff in one hand and Glamdring in the other. 

Merry and Pippin launched themselves and pierced the Troll’s shoulders with their tiny blades. 

It did not have the flexibility to reach back and dislodge them, but soon it worked out how to reach to the side, and they too were flung aside, and they lay still.

Legolas felt like he was trapped underwater, trapped under ice, burning for air. But he knew when he surfaced, the full blow of the grief would hit him. 

With a frying pan Sam charged at the troll. If this was not so real it would be amusing. He was flung back, and now only Gimli remained at its feet, trying to hobble it. The others made ineffectual cuts at its thick hide. 

Legolas had to gather up any last vestige of calm remaining within so that he could take his shot. Its thick hide would not allow a fatal shot. His arrows flew true and the sound of them striking inside its open mouth was disturbingly gratifying as was the thud as it fell. 

The room was now still, and quiet. 

For a moment, Gimli closed his eyes, breathing heavily and resting his head against a stone column.

 _Thank Aulë,_ Sam, Merry and Pippin were moving. They were alive.

They all gathered round the fallen Ringbearer. Absurdly, Legolas was reminded of Merry’s birthday just a few days ago in the cave, as they had all gathered round, solicitous of one little hobbit. Now it was the same, but with a small still figure. 

When he moved - _sat up!_ \- Legolas felt as if the joy of every dawn he had ever seen, was distilled. 

More foes approached, they could not linger, they needed to flee.

The book lay among the bones, collapsed prayer towers and the shattered tomb. Legolas’ fingers worked quickly, unfastening then resecuring straps. 

The others ran, and Legolas stood to follow.

But Gimli stood weeping by what remained of the tomb. 

He would not move.

It had taken Legolas only seconds to open, then refasten the straps of Sam's pack as the others had followed Mithrandir and left the chamber.

Gimli would not move.

As quickly as he could, Legolas stacked all the stones at his feet. _Please_ _Aulë, help your child._

“Gimli! We must move on, we cannot linger,” and this time Gimli was alert. Legolas pulled on his arm, and together they ran.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Legend4time for the lovely phrase - [Gandalf] offering what succour he can by adding his own hopes to Gimli’s. - Thanks!
> 
> The concept of the Elvenking owning everything in Mirkwood is from Telemachus’ Rising verse. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and for sharing your thoughts in the comments!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanfiction is built on the back of beta readers. Freely, strangers give their time to check over stories, brainstorm, encourage, make sure things are anatomically possible etc., often for fandoms they are unfamiliar with, and all just to offer another writer support. Thanks to [Aylwyyn228](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylwyyn228/pseuds/Aylwyyn228/works), [Cassunjey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassunjey/pseuds/Cassunjey/works) & [de_la_cruz87 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_la_cruz87/pseuds/de_la_cruz87/works)\- check out their stories in these fandoms: 13 Reasons Why; The Hobbit; Captain America; Red Dead Redemption; Detroit: Become Human (Video Game); The Walking Dead
> 
> From the part marked ~~~ there is a large chunk of exposition - a thousand words of Gimli thinking about statues. It has some character development but slows the pace - if you want to skip it, scroll down to ~~~
> 
> Thanks for reading and for your comments, which fill me with joyful thoughts.

Like an upended toolbox, Gimli’s mind was in disarray, his thoughts and feelings scattered. The initial shock he had experienced when entering Moria had now subsided. The numbness had faded, replaced by pain. But he still hoped - and he had found some measure of balm.

He squeezed Legolas’ hand softly as the Elf’s glazed eyes stared, unseeing in the darkness. That shine of his was faintly visible. It was no longer irritating - Gimli was glad of it in the gloom.

Gimli mulled over the conversations they had shared.

Legolas had looked startled when Gimli had confessed that Glóin could not tell Elves apart. And Gimli remembered his own answer. _‘Aye, now I can. I would know your face anywhere.’_ Gimli had not added that he would recognise Legolas’ voice, his scent, his smile, his laugh. The way he wrinkled his nose when he was thinking. But this was not the time or place for such words.

As Gimli leant his head against the stone, a part of him wished this were a different time and place, that he might fully enjoy the quiet company of talking with Legolas. The hand softly cradled within Gimli’s own was so soft, it fit perfectly. But reality could not be denied. The enemy had overwhelmed the defences of the Settlers and was unlikely to abandon Moria’s riches. It seemed to be simple chance, due to the vastness of the realm, that the Fellowship had not yet been discovered.

Who could tell what waited for them at the far entrance to Moria? Tharkûn claimed they would reach Durin’s Bridge tomorrow. The arrows among the bones at the entrance were Goblin arrows. Goblins were not known for their intelligence, but an enemy with even a scrap of awareness would guard the bridge, as it was the only point of exit on that side. 

This could well be Gimli’s last night in Middle-Earth. 

Gimli squeezed Legolas’ hand again. If this was how he would spend his final hours, it was as good an end as any he could wish for. 

Gimli desired only that his companions survive this black pit into which he had led them. Though Legolas had asked that they speak no apologies here, he silently prayed for forgiveness for leading the Fellowship into this danger.

He had never thought much about what came after. 

He had never dwelt on thoughts of death; whenever a threat to his life had come upon him it had been swift and sudden - an ambush, a sighting of an Orcish raid. Gimli would fight, and he would win, and afterwards, celebrate winning. He had never been so close to danger lurking close at hand for a prolonged period. 

Gimli generally made the offerings and said the prayers, even as he combed and braided. But above that he followed his own conscience. Some whispered there was no Mahal - that the only ones who had seen him were Elves, and that was hardly an endorsement for the veracity of any claim. Some said Durin the deathless was _not_ deathless. They claimed that every now and then, the lucky child of ambitious parents would somehow be declared to be ‘Durin returned’. Even the True Name that Mahal whispered into the ears of parents to pass onto their child - ‘wishful thinking’ they claimed. They said there was no feasting with the ancestors. They said there was nothing. Gimli stayed away from such blasphemy, but he could not help but wonder sometimes. The survival of Thorin’s Company had been down to ‘luck’ so often, that the Valar _must_ have had a hand in it. But there was only evidence of _Tharkûn’s_ power and influence. Perhaps he would soon find out for himself.

Gimli finally admitted it to himself. The chance of there being an enclave of surviving Settlers was vanishingly thin. It was unlikely. 

Supplies would not have lasted indefinitely, and an enemy whose forces had pushed the Settlers to abandon the Gates of Narvi - Narvi and Celebrimbur - such an enemy would not allow the Settlers to come and go at leisure. If they had escaped, they had not made it far enough to bring news. If they had stayed within, they might have starved to death. No, they would not have cowered in a hole like voles. They would have fought back.

But had Thorin’s Company not seen miracles travelling with Tharkûn? Had they not lived to tell the tales of escaping Trolls and Orcs and Goblins? The retellings of the stories had remained the same, not expanding in the way of confabulations or changing with each telling. The Valar had intervened, or Tharkûn had. And it could happen again. A miracle. 

But, like a stone sinking into a bog, the knowledge had settled inside him. After three days here, he could no longer truthfully say he expected to find his kin well. 

At the very least, Legolas now knew of the Life Debt. Gimli’s relief at having confided the truth to Legolas was tempered by apprehension at what the Elf might ask for - but he would not take on the burden of that worry at this time. Though the burden of repaying a Life Debt was now actively on Gimli’s shoulders, he felt lighter. A Dwarf’s life was not valueless to Legolas. Legolas truly had not known. 

Gimli meditated and tried to prepare himself for the likelihood that they would reach the Durin’s Bridge and leave Moria without ever knowing definitively what had happened to the Settlers.

And if the enemy had not abandoned Moria, they too would need to come and go for supplies, to hunt for food. Goblins were unlikely to be cultivating mushrooms, breeding fish for food in the deep cave pools or learning how to grow grain underground using mirrors and sunlight.

And if the Fellowship encountered them - Goblins were known for their sadistic cruelty. Like cats, they enjoyed toying with their victims if they could. If they were captured, Gimli wondered if he would have the strength to do what was needed. To grant a merciful end to companions being tortured for sport. _Mahal,_ he prayed that would not come to pass. 

Throughout the night, Gimli sat with his hand in Legolas’. He thought of all the other sleepless nights he had spent watching the Elf, distrustful and alert to danger. He now knew how wrong he had been. The Elf was sweet, and even as an Elf deep underground, and in obvious distress, he had tried to comfort Gimli. Talking to him, he was obviously court trained and Balin would enjoy speaking with him. Gimli had not known Elves could be funny. He had always imagined them drifting about, feeling superior. Not like this. Not with a mouth gently opened in rest, a slight flush on his cheeks. 

With his free hand, for the first time since entering Moria, Gimli stacked three stones as a votive. He prayed the Fellowship would leave this place safely. He prayed that his Uncle, Balin, Ori and others would be safe and well. And if not - if not, that their deaths had been with honour and without suffering.

Hot shame rushed over Gimli at the thought of honour. He prayed that he would have the courage to act. At the Gate of Narvi and Celebrimbor Gimli had not fought. The shock was no excuse. He had trained for decades to allow himself to be above instinctual reactions. What if one of the Company had been lost for the lack of Gimli’s axe in the struggle at the gates as they had entered Moria? Could Gimli’s axe have prevented the collapse of the Gates of Narvi? _The Gates of fucking Narvi._ Gimli had stood witness as his people’s heritage had crumbled before him and he had not lifted a finger.

Gimli did not have the heart to practice his daily weapon forms in this place. He had never gone so long without morning practice. The last time he had gone so long without was years ago, when he was laid up abed for five days with a fever. He had been as weak as a kitten for many days afterwards. And today he had neither the strength nor the will to expend energy in this way. Ered Luin was the last time he had gone hungry like this, for so many days. And he did not feel worthy of his warrior’s braid today, given his inaction at the gates and was loath to participate in a warrior’s daily discipline, however much it grounded him normally.

So many brave Dwarves had perished here, many who were far more skilled in weaponscraft than he. Many who had joined the expedition to Moria had been bright and talented, though not the top of their training cohorts. They had hoped that with less competition and more reliance on talent, rather than on who one knew, they could rise to the top in Moria. They were likely among the bones at the gates. Brave Durg, with his collection of different types of gravel and hair so thick he barely bothered to comb it. He would not have stood back as the enemy fell upon his companions. Gimli’s shame covered him.

There had not been much fanfare, given Dáin’s objections to the project, when the Settlers had departed from Erebor. But even so, there had been such a feeling of hope. Now those hopes had turned to ash.

Gimli could now feel that it was early morning. He slipped his hand out of Legolas’, and replaced his glove.

At the sound of his steps, Aragorn sat bolt upright.

“Friend Gimli,” he said softly.

Gimli nodded and Aragorn motioned for him to sit beside him. 

Relations between them had thawed after Gimli had apologised for calling the Man a _whore_. Gimli’s face heated at the memory. But Aragorn, it turned out, was not one to hold a grudge, and thereafter had treated Gimli as if they had been friends from the beginning. 

“Gimli. My mother died twelve years ago.”

Reflexively, Gimli made the Inglishmek sign, _condolences_ to himself. Aragorn had not spoken of this with the group at large, and Gimli was honoured by the trust. 

Aragorn continued. “I wish she could see the victory I am certain will come.”

Even among these bones, Aragorn was hopeful. Gimli noticed he was careful not to give false hope about Gimli’s kin, but expressed an overall hope in the ultimate object of their quest. And from Aragorn, the sentiment was not a mere platitude. Aragorn was sincere, and not with the naive hopefulness of a child, but with a deep, fundamental trust that the ultimate outcome would be to the benefit of the peoples of Middle Earth. 

Gimli had overheard him telling the hobbits that the name he went by among the Elves, _Estel_ , meant ‘hope’ in Elvish. It was fitting.

Dwarves did not set much store in the meanings of their Use Names. Their True Names from Mahal contained all the meaning one needed. For Dwarrow, Use Names were for identification and to show lineage. Aragorn went by many names. Nori’s opinion was that a Man with many names should only be trusted as far as one could throw him. But to every rule there was an exception, and Gimli had slowly come to realise that Aragorn was as honourable a Man as one could ever wish to find. 

Gimli wondered if Legolas’ name had a meaning, and if so, what it meant. One day, if they emerged from this place, they could speak of such things. He smiled to himself at the memory of the sobriquet Legolas had shared; _Little Leaf._

Gimli sat next to Aragorn for a few more beats of silence. Then, with another nod, Gimli accepted Aragorn’s words.

Gimli moved away from the Fellowship to a deserted corner to make water. Returning, he went to sit by Tharkûn who had been awake all night, the faint glow of his staff casting his face into eerie shadow. 

The three wakeful ones - Aragorn, Tharkûn and himself - seemed to have a silent agreement to allow the others a little more rest before the final march the day would bring. 

Tharkûn leaned his staff against the wall - Gimli noticed it retained its glow. Tharkûn reached into an inner pocket and without a word, prepared a pipe.

As he waited, Gimli took the coin from his boot and danced it across his knuckles.

Tharkûn barely looked at it, and after a few moments he passed his pipe to Gimli.

“Your pipe was lost?”

Gimli nodded.

“At the gate?” Tharkûn held his gaze as Gimli nodded again. “Indeed, Gimli. It was so unexpected and chaotic there, it is no surprise you lost your pipe. There is no blame to you there. It could have happened to anyone.”

Gimli’s face heated, but he held the clear, blue eyes. 

Gimli looked away when Tharkûn repeated softly, “No one would blame you.”

The gentle smoke calmed Gimli’s nerves. Gimli wondered if this would be the last pipe he smoked. At least it was Old Toby. As he handed it back, Tharkûn said softly. 

“I know this is not as you had hoped to find Khazad-dûm.”

The sympathy in Tharkûn’s eyes threatened to draw tears from Gimli’s. No, this was _not_ what he had hoped. And moreover, he had hoped that Tharkûn would have been fêted and honoured in Moria. Gimli would have asked for Tharkûn to be named ‘Dwarf friend’. He would have vouched for Legolas. In this moment, Gimli hoped that the Wizard _could_ read minds, as they said, so that Gimli could convey all that he could not find the words to say. 

Tharkûn smiled sadly. Then, after a moment he gestured with the pipe at the coin in Gimli’s hand. Gimli was jolted from his thoughts. 

“I see the Shire custom of ‘regifting’ things for which one has no use is a fashion which has spread abroad.”

At Gimli’s raised brow, Tharkûn continued. “It has been a long while since such a coin has circulated in Middle Earth. If I recall correctly, on three occasions Lord Celeborn sent chests of such coin to the Woodland Realm. Gifts in celebration of the birth of the Elvenking’s sons, and I have acted as messenger in this on two occasions.”

Gimli had always avoided talking, even thinking, of Mirkwood and those who dwelt within, but Legolas had shared so many small details of his life there, he could no longer think of them as a lurking evil. Gimli gestured to Tharkûn to continue.

“Yes, knowing Thranduil’s notions, Celeborn insisted on sending gifts of coins to the princes, that they each might have some treasure of their own. I would wager this coin is from Legolas’ share.”

“Why don’t you just rifle around my head to get the answers you want, Tharkûn?”

Tharkûn tapped out his pipe, then stowed it inside his robe. He normally stored it inside his staff. _Was he expecting that he would need to use his staff as more than a torch?_

“I only discern the truth from the facts before my eyes, Master Gimli. I have no need to rifle and rummage.”

Gimli said nothing.

Tharkûn continued. “The Elvenking provides for all, such that they have no need for coin. I am not certain Legolas fully understands its function or value.”

Before Gimli could even open his mouth, Tharkûn was speaking placatingly. 

“I am not blaming you for taking the coin from him, Gimli. I am fairly sure I saw him braid a gem into Bill’s mane on one occasion.”

They shared an amused look. 

Tharkûn reached for the coin, and Gimli felt a strange reluctance to be parted from it, but handed it over without protest.

Tharkûn studied the face on the coin, then looked over to Aragorn, who sat with eyes closed in meditation. “A coin of ancient Numenor. An ancestor. Aragorn would probably take a great deal of interest in this coin.”

Somehow, Gimli did not want to hand it to anyone else. It felt private. He did not even like Tharkûn holding it. Tharkûn gave it back, and Gimli returned it to his boot.

Tharkûn now spoke in a light tone. “It reminds me of the Bracegirdle boot stand.” He laughed softly. “I do not know what first moved them to buy one. Perhaps it was a thoughtless gift from a Man. How it first came to the Bracegirdle household shall remain a mystery. There was a section for umbrellas, which was useful enough, but as you can imagine, Gimli, a boot stand in a hobbit home was entirely redundant.” 

His down-to-earth tone was soothing. It reminded him of when he had been a dwarrowling and Tharkûn was telling his tales in the halls of Ered Luin, and Gimli relaxed as Tharkûn carried on speaking. 

“It took up entirely too much space, but it was attractive and finely wrought - beautiful carpentry - Bofur would love it. Yes, so as I was saying, I believe at one point or another it has been in every home in the Shire. In a way, Gimli, that is how the Elves of Mirkwood treat coins. An attractive, if useless curiosity.”

“I wish you had told me that years ago.”

Gimli knew he would not have listened, parroting Glóin he probably would have said that he ‘didn’t want to hear about tree-fuckers,’ if Tharkûn had begun to speak of the economy of Mirkwood. 

And without any need for Magic, Tharkûn knew him well enough to see through bluster. There was no point in dissembling. 

“I was a shit.”

Tharkûn nodded. “Indeed you were.”

Gimli looked down at his feet. Censure from Tharkûn still had the power to make him feel like a clumsy apprentice. 

Tharkûn now smiled. “But I am glad to see you are following in the footsteps of Celebrimbur and Narvi.”

What did Tharkûn know of them? Had he met them? Were they two who had overcome enmity to work on a common project, or were they friends who had laboured together. Or - he did not want to ask. He dared not ask. 

“Perhaps the two of you can bridge the gap between your peoples.”

Gimli did not want Tharkûn to keep talking in this direction.

“Tharkûn, why do you not simply sail with the ring? To wherever Elves fuck off to.”

“I cannot sail with the Ring, Gimli. It is evil and wishes to return to its Master. And besides, it is not wanted in the Undying Lands.”

Boromir and the hobbits began to stir. Gimli shared out the last of the cram in his pack, once again washed down with water. Gimli had never been overly fond of cram at the best of times, but now he hated the sight and taste of it. He did not think he would be able to eat it again after this journey. 

The others began to walk on, but Gimli took Frodo’s arm, holding him back as the others passed. When they were alone at the back of the group, Gimli spoke softly to Frodo. 

“Remember Bilbo’s stories? Do you remember what he did when they were overwhelmed by Goblins?”

Frodo nodded solemnly. Unspoken the words lay between them; _Bilbo wore the Ring to disappear and escape._

“Aye, lad.” Gimli said. “Do the same.”

They then walked to catch up to the others. 

They passed through a hall which felt truly ancient. The wall sconces still held burnt out torches, but in this deep shadow, the hundreds of figures carved in stone looked ominous. 

Gimli paused at the carving of one of Durin’s incarnations, prominently displayed. Gimli had always wondered if he looked exactly the same each time, but they did not have the time for Gimli to search through all the inscriptions and make comparisons. 

Gimli should count himself fortunate that he was perhaps one of the last living Dwarves to have looked upon Khazad-dûm’s Hall of Heroes, and upon one of Durin’s likenesses. He looked fierce and magnificent. What would he think of Gimli?

~~~

Gimli recalled his first days in Erebor. When news of the Company’s success had reached Ered Luin, and Gimli had travelled to Erebor with the first caravan.

Among those who had come from the Iron Hills with Dáin’s army, and remained in Erebor, had been Master masons. 

Their first commissions had been the tombs of Thorin, Fili and Kili. The stone coffins had been splendid, befitting a King Under the Mountain and his heirs. The first caravan from Ered Luin arrived and found them completed already. Gimli hated them. He would have hated them regardless of the design chosen. 

Gimli had stood witness when Dís received news of her triple loss. She had silently crumpled into herself. Gimli had been shocked. He had been primed for a happy ending. The story was not meant to end this way. They were meant to be enjoying the victory together. They had made plans. And then came the guilt at his relief that his father was not among the dead. How could he feel relief when the news was that two of his closest friends and kin were dead? Relief that that the list had contained three names only, though his idol was named on that list?

Most of Ered Luin had been expecting to hear news of deaths, so it seemed that though sorrowful, they were not struck in the same way as he was, as Dís and his mother were upon hearing the news.

But where his mother and Dís had been ready to leave for weeks, anticipating victory, others took longer to pack up their lives from Ered Luin, and when they had a large enough party to travel, they set out for Erebor.

Thus, masons who had travelled from Ered Luin arrived to find their king already entombed. Perhaps in guilt, at not having followed, at not having heeded Thorin’s call, all those versed in stonecraft had insisted on working on both the commemoration of the victory and on the additions to Erebor’s Halls of Heroes. 

Among the proud, imposing, larger-than-life statues were rough, unformed pillars, ready to receive the likeness of whoever the Khazad deemed worthy. 

The statues of Thorin, Fili and Kili - they had not captured the likenesses. They had tried, using Ori’s drawings and memory. But they had not managed to capture the soulfulness of Kili’s eyes, or the playfulness in Fili’s. Thorin simply looked grim. They had depicted none of his kindness. The statues looked dead. 

The rest of the Company had taken turns to stand for their own likenesses to be captured. Bofur had turned up in labouring clothes. After sculpting his face, they had sent him away. At the private unveiling for the Company and their families, Bofur had laughed at the magnificent armour they had depicted the statue as wearing. However, he had taken a woodcarving chisel from his overalls and chipped off the full beard they had made for him in stone. His eyes turned flinty as he asked, “Would you refuse a Lord of Erebor a true likeness, scandalous as it is?”

They had gaped at him. 

“And get the hair right too.”

They had not carved in Ori’s bastard’s fringe and he too insisted it was put in. Nori and Dori had refused to mark themselves so, but Ori had said, “It is the way of the Khazad and I will honour it.”

Twelve statues stood of the Company. Neither Bilbo nor Tharkûn were thus immortalised, the argument being that ‘they are not Khazad’. 

Some said the statues would be made later, but they never had. The very public falling out between Bilbo and Thorin in the days before his death had been well known, and the suspicions surrounding Tharkûn had been raised as counterpoints whenever someone argued that their statues should go up.

In those early days, tensions had been many; those from the Iron Hills who had remained in Erebor with Dáin wished for positions of prominence. Many of the refugees who had settled in Ered Luin wished to return to the status quo from before Smaug. Complicated politics were in play and Balin had counselled that statues were not a matter to start an uprising over. It was difficult enough integrating so many different groups, which now included Dwarves who had lived away from other Dwarves for close to two hundred years. Dwarves who had been born in Mannish places and now wished to cling to tradition as a thing to bind them, and reassure them that they were all now safe Under the Mountain. 

Young Dwarves would be taken to the Hall of Heroes by their schoolmasters and told that if they worked hard, ‘Perhaps this –‘ and they would gesture dramatically to an uncarved stone pillar, ‘- Perhaps this could one day be a statue of you.’

All the years of leadership Dís had provided had been dismissed by Dáin, saying she may indeed be a hero of Ered Luin, but this was Erebor. Ered Luin did not even have a Hall of Heroes and Dáin knew that full well. 

Dís had said she had not the heart to lead and that they needed a ruler fully in the land of the living, and not steeped in memory and in shadow. It was whispered that Dáin feared a challenge to his claim to the throne from her supporters, so did not wish to enhance her prestige with a statue. 

As they walked through Moria's Hall of Heroes, Gimli thought of the final letter he had received from Ori, with small stories of their day-to-day doings, of mischievous goats and grumbles about the lack of Shire Pipeweed. ‘Smoking this Mannish pipeweed, one might as well be smoking dried dung,’ Ori had complained. Gimli had felt the smile in the letter as Ori had told how in his old age Balin had found love and even at his advanced age, ever the romantic, he wanted a full courtship, with all the formal observances.

~~~

Walking with the Fellowship, the quality of the darkness changed, and soon the light from Tharkûn’s staff was overtaken by sunlight. The Elf looked happy at that. 

Then the boulder came down and crushed the last bead of hope Gimli carried. 

A shaft of sunlight illuminated a kingly, stone sepulchre.

Gimli read the inscription above the door out loud, and for a fragile moment, Gimli was calm. 

_Balin, laughing as Gimli, Fili and Kili tried to get out of lessons. Balin standing proud as they welcomed the first Ered Luin caravan to Erebor Reclaimed, his white beard blowing softly in the breeze. Balin smiling proudly in the crowd as Gimli was awarded his Mastery._

Sunlight upon Balin’s tomb. Not buried deep below, with all the other Lords of Moria.

For another beat the calm continued, and Gimli thought to himself, ‘You always have to do everything bloody differently from everyone else, Balin.’

Gimli’s feet carried him, and his tears blurred his vision as he read the inscription on the tomb. Now it was the salt sting of fresh bereavement. Gimli’s knees gave way. He heard a strange noise - that cry was coming from him. He could almost feel the cold of the stone through his gloves. As he knelt at the tomb, he could feel Boromir’s hand on his shoulder.

Here lay Balin, Khazad-dûm, cradled in stone.

He was gone. They were all gone. Outside, the world carried on. People were feeding their hogs, and mending their shoes, while the Settlers of Moria lay still.

Gimli’s stomach heaved, but it was empty and the taste of bile filled his mouth. 

Tharkûn read the words of the record. Like daggers they were. Flashes of pain stabbed him as the words registered. 

Gimli could not bear to think of his funny, kind uncle as the meal of that creature. Óin, who would give away the last scrap in his cupboard. Unbidden came an image of Uncle Óin letting Gimli look in his medicine bag when he was a dwarrowling, he remembered being fascinated by the strange smells. As they had waited beside that pool, Óin’s remains had been so close. And not a single blow of Gimli’s axe had fallen upon the creature in vengeance. 

_Had he suffered? Had he been torn apart? Oh Mahal!_

Gimli pulled at his beard. At the very least, thanks to his companions, the creature had fewer tentacles now, and Elvish arrows in its maw. But even that could not atone for the ignominy of his uncle’s death. Did his shade wander by the water seeking rest, as he had not been returned to stone as he should have been?

Gimli looked over to Tharkûn as he hung his head.

_Oh fuck_

_Oh Mahal. Those remains had a scarf._ Gimli did not think he had more tears, but his heart was rent anew as he realised this was Ori lying unburied. 

The thought of it was like a blow, when caught off guard in training. Gimli thought his mind might fracture.

So shy, Ori had crept into all their lives as a dwarrowling, whispering and apologising. Gimli could not remember a time before Ori. He had crept into all his memories of growing up. Hours sitting, helping him untangle wool for Ori’s mother, talking all sorts of nonsense as they worked. Gimli remembered Ori’s pout whenever Gimli turned the corner of a page, making what he called a ‘hog’s ear’ to mark his place in the book. 

The four of them had become a machine of many parts; Fili-and-Kili-and-Ori-and-Gimli. Now Gimli was the only one left. No matter how far, that bond between them would never break. Nothing so simple as death could end it. But Gimli now had a new wound in his heart, and from experience he knew that with every beat the pain would stab at him, until he simply grew used to it. It would never go away. 

Pippin stumbled over several towers of votive stones, then tripped and knocked the skeletal remains of some poor warrior into a well.

“Fool of a Took!” Tharkûn cried. “Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity. This is a serious journey, not a hobbit walking-party. Now be quiet!”

Then began the drum; Doom, doom. Like an evil heartbeat it pulsed through the room.

After that, Gimli’s memory of that day came only in snatches.

He remembered the thud of boots growing closer. Many boots. 

And he remembered the sure knowledge that today he would give his life in defence of his friends and offer what vengeance he could for his kin. 

“Let them come! There is still one Dwarf in Moria yet who draws breath!”

Gimli stood up on the tomb. It was no disrespect. If Balin could see him, he knew he would not care about something like that. Though the odds were against them, he would try. He would do what he could to defend against these intruders, and to ensure the continuation of the mission to destroy the Ring. Perhaps Aragorn’s kind of hope was contagious. 

But it would be better if they died in the melee rather than be captured. 

Even in its ruin, the magnificence of the Dwarrowdelf was beyond anything he had ever seen. Let them come. The numbers against them were too great. The odds were overwhelming. He would die here. It was a good place to die. 

And beside an Elf he would die. 

Though his mind was in a daze, contemplating his own end, without thought his body knew what to do. His feet took him to the Elf and together they fought. 

Gimli felt like one of the self-winding creations Khazad-dûm had hoped to pioneer and make commonplace. 

The fighting around him raged, and only instinct moved him. The maneuvers he had taught the hobbits, he now used himself; duck - slice - dodge - cut. Sever a tendon here, cut off a foot. 

Legolas’ arrows and knives covered him as Gimli fought to protect the hobbits.

 _Mahal, it was a troll._ This was truly the end. Alone, he could outrun it, but the stout-hearted hobbits had already flung themselves at it - he could not retreat now, to leave them to that fate. They were as fierce as any Dwarf but it was not enough. 

Then the Ringbearer was lost. He had thought he was completely numb now, but once again he was pierced. 

As he turned to see the Ringbearer impaled, he thought back to a letter the Company had received from Bilbo, telling how his nephew had come to live with him. The return letter contained toys from Bofur and in the letter of thanks which had come several months later, Bilbo had included a drawing of a curly-haired lad playing with the mechanical horse. Now, that was all he could see as he looked over at the tiny, still body. 

He thought he had prepared himself for this. He knew all four hobbits could not survive such a perilous journey. But it should not have been in Moria. Gimli had wanted to surprise them with the tiny mine ponies used to pull carts through tunnels. They were not strong enough to bear the weight of a Dwarf, but it would have amused them all to see the hobbits for once have a mount which was the right size. But that would never happen now.

The grunts of the troll and the pounding of blood in his ears were all Gimli could hear. He could see the others shouting, but he could hear none of it. It was curious. This had never happened to him before. Even when Balin’s tomb was smashed and his bones were scattered, dishonoured, all he could do was note dispassionately that they were now mingled with Ori’s. 

Something in him died at the sight of the shattered tomb. Gimli too would meet his end here, unburied. His bones would be scattered among those of his friend and those of his mentor, and the brave warriors, and artists and scholars and thinkers who had died beside them. 

In the silence of the room, the drum still rang out; doom, doom. Distantly Gimli took note of the miracle of the Ringbearer alive again. He was walking, in a corselet of Moria silver. Perhaps they were both dead.

He recalled overhearing Bilbo and Frodo discussing it, and Tharkûn had spoken of its value, but to see it left no doubt. And that was a royal betrothal gift. Mithril was the gift of royalty to his consort. Gimli had nothing left inside. He could not even feel the shock that his uncle had been courting - and courting _Bilbo! - a hobbit -_ before he died. 

Perhaps he would see Thorin soon.

Gimli ached all over. Perhaps he was still alive. Perhaps Mahal would have mercy, and this room would cave in, so that Gimli would be buried under stone at the last. 

He had nothing left. His ears were ringing and he slumped over what remained of the tomb. 

The insistent pulling at his arm drew him from the fog of his misery. He was still needed. He had pledged his axe, so he obeyed that pull, and ran.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have used some passages from the books and films if something seems familiar.
> 
> My betas are [Aylwyyn228](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylwyyn228/pseuds/Aylwyyn228/works), [Cassunjey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassunjey/pseuds/Cassunjey/works) & [de_la_cruz87 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_la_cruz87/pseuds/de_la_cruz87/works)  
> Without them it would be a bunch of windings, basically.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and commenting. You do not need to dredge up memories of English class to comment; ‘the colour red here symbolises…’ Just, if you liked it, let me know. If you hated it, let me know :-)

They ran.

The boom of Gimli’s heavy boots reassured Legolas that he was close behind - moving, and not frozen in grief as before.

Legolas remembered the first time he had seen a Dwarf run further than a short measure of distance. It was in Laketown, shortly before that place was destroyed. Amid the chaos, Legolas remembered his feeling of surprise at the Dwarf’s speed. Somehow, he had thought the short legs, their bulk, and the heft of the armour would render them - slow and bumbling - but they were swift of foot. So he knew Gimli could gather the speed to catch up to the others. Nevertheless, he now ran behind Gimli in case he stopped again. Legolas did not wish to look back and see Gimli had fallen behind.

He could not bear the idea of that.

And he did not want to look back.

An overwhelming sense of dread was beginning to take hold of Legolas. The stone around them felt as if it were mute with terror. He knew they were not yet out of danger, they had not yet found safety. Even when he and Gimli rejoined the group, that small relief barely registered.

In the sunlit chamber from which they had emerged, Legolas had thought he had made peace with the possibility of his own death, of the possible deaths of his companions. But when the truth of it was laid before him, plainly, in Frodo’s still form, he realised he had not, and could not feel equanimity at the thought of dying.

He did not wish to die here. In the dark.

Beneath the boom of the drums - doom, doom - came the sounds from the Goblins. The howls, and grunts and gurgles of the creatures were like nothing he had ever heard before. The sounds grew ever closer and were coming from all around them.

The creatures had caught up to them.

Surrounded by Goblins, Legolas braced himself for the onslaught. But it did not come. Legolas could feel the power surging around him as Mithrandir’s staff created a small circle of safety around them. It held the creatures at bay.

Legolas resisted the urge to fire upon them, fearing that would cause the hoard to surge forward and engulf the Fellowship.

But even as their twisted faces scowled, as grey, deformed hands rattled their weapons, and as mouths filled with sharp teeth hissed at the Fellowship, Legolas tried to hold onto hope.

From the corner of his eye he could see Gimli whispering to Frodo. Gimli then drew a blade from his boot. That would do little good against the press of Goblins. How long could Mithrandir hold them off?

Like two stout tree trunks, Gimli’s feet seemed to be planted in the stone.

Then, the note of the Song twisted in agony. The world compressed into a single point of darkness. The skittering of the goblins became overlaid with that discordant note. He had heard it before, and it was now magnified.

Legolas cried out, overwhelmed by the sound.

The harsh notes of its discordant melody in the Song - they were tearing at him. The whimpering sound of terror - that was not Pippin, it was coming from his own throat. Legolas’ heard the clatter of his own bow on the ground. He could feel the full chill of winter deep within his bones.

Shadow and flame approached.

_It will start to nibble at your toes, then gobble you all up if you are a naughty elfling._

No.

This could not be.

His hand drifted to the pocket containing the runestone.

Mithrandir’s words confirmed his worst fear.

“A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world.”

Legolas did not wish to die in any manner, but a Balrog -

He could not bear to close his eyes against the repellent sight of churning fire. A part of him needed to see this. The odour of rotting eggs filled the air, and flames licked at the stone around it. Legolas’ feet were frozen in place. He would not have been able to run even if he had tried.

As it drew closer, Legolas could see a path open up to him.

Away from the fear, the jarring sounds, was a soft light. A gentle light. All he needed to do was to step into it, allow it to embrace him and all would be well. The fear would be gone and he would be away from the Balrog.

Estel called out, “Run!”

Legolas’ arm was roughly pulled, and he was drawn back into the dark hall, now lit with an unwholesome, orange glow. Whispering, dancing shadows caressed the walls around them.

The group moved towards steps and as Legolas ran, someone pressed his bow into his hand.

They ran, and in the dark ahead of him Legolas could see Boromir headed for a chasm. _Oh Eru,_ Men could not see in this darkness! With all the speed he could gather, he surged forward and caught Boromir as he was on the verge of a plunge into the darkness. Legolas thought he would feel shock, fear, something at the knowledge that Boromir, his friend, had nearly perished, but he felt nothing. The only thing he could feel was terror. Cold terror at the thought of the Balrog behind them.

He ran.

All he could do was to run.

He could not think.

He felt as if he had drunk too much wine. Everything felt tilted, and the roar in his ears and the discordant sound were all he could hear.

Waves of burning summer heat lapped at his back and Legolas could hear the sizzle on the ground as the - as it moved towards them. He kept Gimli ahead of him as he ran, and Legolas anchored himself to that sound of heavy boots on stone and followed it.

They ran, and coming to a small gap in the stairs, Legolas skipped over it, but the others stopped. Minutes ago, in the chamber, Legolas had seen Mithrandir in full battle flow, and a spike of annoyance pierced through him as Mithrandir hesitated with the others, still playing the old Man.

“Mithrandir,” Legolas called, gesturing.

Mithrandir closed the gap, and now arrows rained around them, tapping on the stone. At any moment he would hear beside him the impact of an arrow on flesh.

But Legolas could now see shy tendrils of daylight, and the heat had subsided. They might all still emerge safely. There was still a chance.

His bow set to work, and Legolas tried to ignore the squeals and thuds which told him his arrows had found their mark, as they always did.

Boromir leapt, holding Merry and Pippin under his arms, like bundles of firewood. Thank Aulë, he crossed the gap, landing with a thud. The stairs crumbled behind him and a wave of fear surged up again in Legolas. Gimli could never jump that distance, and he would be too heavy for Estel to carry.

Boromir threw down the torch he held, and though Legolas heard it fizzle out, he did not hear a splash or a sound to indicate it had reached the bottom. Estel threw Sam into Boromir’s waiting arms, while Legolas tried to spot the glint of arrows in the dark and fire upon the archers who were hidden therein. The clang and clatter of the pan tied to Sam’s pack testified that he had landed safely.

The stone groaned as the gap widened. The stone which fell made no noise, and Legolas did not hear it hit the bottom. Gimli was too heavy to be thrown across. Legolas’ heart sank. Frodo could be thrown, and Estel could make the leap. But, they could not leave Gimli here. Legolas could leap the gap, to remain with him, _oh Eru_ , he took a step in that direction. Not in the direction of - _that_.

All Legolas could do was to fire as he tried to think of a solution. He could smell the sweat of fear rising from his companions. The whine of the arrows sailing through the air punctuated the sound of the beating of his own heart.

No!

Gimli was making the leap. Into the chasm, into the dark.

Legolas’ turned, stretching forth his hand. Gimli was not going to make it!

His heavy boots scrabbled at the crumbling edge. Legolas lunged forward, and managed to grasp his beard, the only part of his friend he could reach. He pulled him away from the precipice. Gimli’s pack and his scarf fell away into the void, but Gimli fell into Legolas’ waiting arms.

For a moment, he felt joyful at the solid press of Gimli’s bulk against him. Gimli was still here, _thank Aulë!_ Then the cold, wet rot of their situation settled on him anew.

But with each leap, more of the bridge was crumbling away and now it was too far for Estel to jump, and there was no retreat. Legolas could perhaps leap up to where they were, and throw Frodo to Boromir, as Estel had done with Sam. But that would still leave Estel. Even a short pause might allow the archers a chance to score a hit and Estel could not use a bow and focus on balancing on the small platform at the same time.

Now that Gimli was safe by his side, Legolas did not know if he could bring himself to move closer to the Balrog, when everything in him was telling him to run from it.

Was this rush, this chaos, how mortals always perceived time? Now everything was happening on top of each other. Each event bled into the next without room for reflection. Frodo and Estel were cut off. _Oh Elbereth_. The Balrog was here. It was here.

He wanted to run.

Perhaps Glorfindel should have come instead of him. He would annoy everyone, and bluster and fight. He would not have obeyed Estel or Mithrandir, and would have done only what he wished to do. But he had fought such a creature before and prevailed. He would have been useful here. All Legolas could do was run from it, and yet, he could not leave his friends.

Legolas stood and watched and waited. He could see what Estel was trying to do. He was trying to balance and control the direction in which the platform fell. It was mad. They would be lost in the darkness.

_Legolas could save the Ring from the chasm. Leap up and take it._

He focused his eyes on Estel and reached out as the column swayed then crumpled. Estel’s shoulder knocked into Legolas’ mouth as he caught him and he could taste blood as his own teeth cut his lip. Legolas looked over to Boromir who had Frodo.

Perhaps they could make it. Hope welled up, bubbled up.

The gap was now large between the Fellowship and - it.

Bal - they could not fly as far as he knew.

They were almost out.

He could see daylight, all they needed to do was cross the final bridge and they would be safe.

Legolas licked away the tang of blood.

Gimli pulled on his hand and they both ran.

_Oh fuck_

It had somehow traversed the gap and was still behind him. Legolas picked up Frodo and ran. Frodo had been injured and could not keep up such a pace. He set him down only as they came to the final bridge.

Legolas would cross last. If a leap were needed again, he would be the one best placed to make it.

He could see clear daylight!

They were all across!

But no.

Mithrandir had turned back to face it.

Mithrandir was - was talking to it.

_Oh fuck_

But if Mithrandir did not attempt to battle it, perhaps it would follow them out. But how did one even fight that. Did Mithrandir even know how to fight such a thing?

Had he asked Glorfindel? For all that he was a braggart, Glorfindel had never spoken of the Balrog in Legolas’ hearing.

The hobbits were shouting.

Legolas did not want to look upon this. He wanted to run.

“You shall not pass!”

Perhaps it would turn away.

The Valar were merciful! Mithrandir had cast it into the abyss.

Legolas’ heart faltered as Mithrandir was pulled down.

No.

Mithrandir fell.

The flap and rustle of his robes carried in the stillness of that fall.

Everything around him stood still. There was a beat of silence in the Song.

Again, that hand tugging at him, drawing him away.

He ran.

When Legolas emerged into the sunlight he felt no joy. There was deep winter in his bones, and a gentle light calling him away.

He could not go on, knowing this.

He had witnessed the death of an immortal. At the hands of a Balrog. Frodo had almost died. Boromir had almost fallen. Sam had almost fallen. They had all almost fallen. They had all been an arrow’s width, a sword’s breadth from death this day, and the sun was not even halfway through its daily journey in the sky.

And Mithrandir was gone.

Legolas stood and stared sightlessly at the landscape.

Mithrandir had lived many times the span of a mortal lifetime, far longer on Arda than all of them put together, yet still the mortals wept for his loss. His tutor had explained that the Valar appointed for mortals their ends, and Legolas had tried not to think about it overmuch. Father had said mortals were used to loss, that they took it in their stride and carried on. But looking at his companions, all pierced and twisted with grief - Father was wrong.

Before Legolas’ very eyes, a being of great power had lost his life.

The freezing wind burned the tracks of his tears as they fell silently.

It felt different from when Gilron was lost. Gilron had always been so deferential towards Legolas, and though Legolas often saw him, he knew little of him. The guilt of his death had lain heavily on Legolas; it had moved him to travel to Imladris. And before that, Legolas had mourned the few who had been lost at the Battle of Five Armies, and ones lost on a patrol - but he had known none of them well, and had not dwelt on their deaths. But this.

This loss felt – incomplete.

Legolas had not taken joy from the sight of Gilron’s mangled form, the neck - but at least he had that knowledge that Gilron’s life on Arda was truly over. But Mithrandir, he was just _gone._ He could not reconcile what he had seen as being Mithrandir’s end.

Gimli must have felt something akin to this before he had seen the tomb of his cousin Balin. The evidence had been there, but the final proof - a dead body, or bones - that was the ultimate argument no one could contest.

Legolas had seen Mithrandir fall, he knew that from that height, even an Elf would not survive. He could not have survived the fall, and if he had, then surely the - _it_ \- had survived also. And they would be down there together. The horror of it clawed at Legolas’ mind.

Could the Valar have willed such a thing? Apart from when singing praise, Legolas had never spared much thought for the Valar. He had never thought about them much before this journey.

This spreading cold inside him, this darkness clutched at him. The light welcomed him.

Legolas had speed where the others did not. He had strength. But he had stood and watched as Mithrandir was hanging on the precipice. He should have run towards him, instead of away. He should have dragged him to safety before he fell. Surely, with a knife he could have cut the lash around Mithrandir’s feet. But he had just stood, like a bear woken out of season, dull with hibernation. Disoriented and useless.

And he felt - unclean.

Legolas had never killed so many before. On this day he had ended more lives than the sum of those he had slain before today. They were the enemy, corrupted notes in the Song - but to end so many lives felt wrong.

Legolas looked down at his hands, black with blood. It burned at his skin. Never before had Legolas dealt so much death. He had never before caused so much destruction. Even in the battle of Five Armies he had not killed this many.

His boots and tunic were splattered with gore and the smell clung to him.

Legolas began to feel as if he was floating away - all this was too much - he needed to get away from this pain. It was too much.

“Legolas, get them up.”

He was jolted back into awareness by Estel’s command.

He looked around. Merry and Pippin were on the ground by his feet. Still weeping.

“By nightfall these hills will be crawling with Orcs.”

Legolas was pulled back.

He looked around and saw Estel drawing Sam and Frodo from this place. Boromir’s arms were around Gimli. They both seemed to be weeping.

Legolas directed Merry and Pippin to stand.

More gently this time, Estel spoke again. “Let us gird ourselves and weep no more! Come! We have a long road, and much to do.”

Pippin’s eyes were red but he had dried his tears. He looked unnaturally calm and something in it frightened Legolas.

They all followed, keeping to the ruins of a road where wild heather grew in the cracks, and the trees lining it sighed in the wind.

“Durin’s Stone!” Gimli called out after some distance. His voice was hoarse from tears.

Gimli took Frodo, and turned aside from the road to look upon what he had called the ‘Mirrormere’. Sam followed them, not waiting for an invitation. Legolas would have welcomed the distraction from his thoughts, but he knew enough of his lessons to know Durin was important to Dwarves. This was something important to Gimli, and Legolas would not intrude and go where he had not been asked.

Gimli’s voice carried. “This pillar marks the spot where Durin first looked in the Mirrormere. 'O Kheled-zaram fair and wonderful!'” said Gimli. “There lies the Crown of Durin till he wakes.”

Legolas tried to set aside his hurt that Gimli had not wished for him to see this. He had thought - after the days in Moria, after Caradhras - he had thought -

Legolas let the disappointment settle in his stomach.

They came upon an icy spring. The others filled the remaining waterskins, and Legolas knelt by its side, bending down first to wash his hands, then to drink his fill. The cold revived him, and thinking for a moment, he climbed down into the water. The icy shock of it cleared away the remaining mist, and he rubbed at what gore he could, though there was no time to wash his clothing here.

Estel pointed to their destination in the distance; the golden canopy of the woods of Lothlórien.

They were headed for Lothlórien, where autumn leaves did not fall, but turned to gold, forming a golden roof. The trees formed silver pillars. The Silvans of the Woodland Realm sang of their kin in Lothlórien and of the beauty of that place, perhaps with a touch of longing as the Darkness strengthened in Mirkwood.

At any other time, he would have felt excitement at the thought of visiting Lothlórien, but now he was just numb.

Even as they ran, Legolas could hear the growl of the hobbits’ stomachs. They had eaten nothing since the morning, and the sun was now low in the afternoon sky. The noise of their approach scared away all the small creatures by the road, and Legolas dared not stray away from the group in search of meat for them. Estel still had the bow he had found, and he was a better shot than expected, but Legolas did not like to leave the group without the cover of his own bow.

Estel, and Boromir collected pieces of wood and sticks as they ran. Now they had a small bundle suitable for a fire. They encouraged the hobbits, who stumbled as they ran, but the thump of Gimli’s boots was steady, like a solemn heartbeat.

Legolas turned and saw Sam and Frodo lagging behind and called for a rest. Estel soon directed them into a dell sheltered by pines, and which hid them from view.

Legolas and Estel, with their bare hands, dug a hole. Legolas started the fire, and even through his sorrow he felt a burst of pride as the gentle flames took hold. He turned to see Gimli’s smile, tinged with sorrow, as he brought Sam’s pot full of water to heat. He nodded in approval of Legolas’ efforts, then returned to sit with Merry and Pippin. They - did not look well. Estel showed Legolas how to drape a loosely-woven net of evergreen branches over the firepit, hiding the fire and smoke from those who might seek them out.

Relief was clear on Estel’s face as he tended to their wounds. Orcish and Goblin weapons often were tainted with poison, but the small cuts they had received were free from any foul substance. Estel used the last of the alatheas in his healers’ pouch, which had remained intact throughout this fraught day.

After Frodo removed his shirt, Estel laughed as he gently held up Frodo’s mithril corselet. The gems on it glittered like stars, and the sound of the shaken rings was like the tinkle of rain in a pool. Gimli gazed at it in wonder, then demonstrated how the tiny rings absorbed the impact of any blow. Frodo owed his life to the corslet.

Estel counselled him. “Do not lay it aside, even in sleep, unless fortune brings you where you are safe for a while; and that will seldom chance while your quest lasts.”

Even so, Frodo was bruised and cut, and Estel bathed the hurts with water in which athelas was steeped, scooping some from the pot using a cup. The pungent fragrance filled the dell, and they all felt refreshed and strengthened.

Then, in turn, they all drank of the warm alethas steeped liquid and felt much revived

But they could not eat athelas.

They all looked away as Gimli removed his armour to get to his last, hidden store of flat Dwarf bread. Once again, Legolas did not eat, and he could feel a strange pain in his stomach.

After the brief pause, they ran until deep night had fallen.

Legolas would have had them run through the night to avoid pursuit, but the hobbits were exhausted. Even Boromir had stumbled several times.

Once they reached the eaves of the Golden wood, Boromir was reluctant to enter, and Gimli spoke of ‘a great sorceress’ living in these woods ‘an Elf witch of terrible power.’ Well, Father was not terribly complimentary of her either, so Legolas would not contradict him. Gimli spoke again. “All who look upon her fall under her spell and and are never seen again - well here’s one dwarf she won’t ensnare so easily.” he said resolutely.

“None emerge unchanged,” Estel said to himself.

They walked on and heard a flowing stream. Its voice was like merry singing. The joy it gave out did not mock Legolas’ own sorrow, rather it strengthened him. He silently gave thanks to his tutor for teaching him so often through song.

“Here is Nimrodel!” said Legolas. “Of this stream the Silvan Elves made many songs long ago, and still we sing them in the North, remembering the rainbow on its falls, and the golden flowers that floated in its foam.”

“Its waters revive the weary.” Legolas removed his boots and waded in the stream, bending to drink again, and despite his hunger, feeling strengthened. He led them all across so that they could rest on the far bank and allowed the song of the water to bring sleep and forgetfulness of grief.

The group was now silent with exhaustion as the light faded. A curious rabbit approached and, feeling a sting at betraying its trust, Legolas shot it. It was not enough for the eight of them - eight, but it would have to do. Again, Legolas would not take a share. Gimli caught his eye and reached for his vambraces with a question in his eye. Legolas held out his hand as Gimli unlaced them. Legolas gave thanks, then Sam put the meagre meal on a spit to roast, while Gimli buried the skin and entrails.

As the others ate, Legolas sang of Nimrodel, the maiden who bore the same name as the stream she had lived beside. She was a Silvan who had lived in Lothlórien before the Sindar and Noldor. She had known they would bring strife and so had lived away from them. This was one of the songs his tutor had used to help teach him Westron as an elfling. Thinking about it now, it was a rather subversive song, and Legolas had not understood the look Father had given the tutor when Legolas had proudly sung it at the evening meal.

She had loved a Sindar King, Amoroth, and he had loved her back, but because of politics they could not be together. She had been lost in the White Mountain. Perhaps Legolas should not have sung this, but the melody carried him. He sang out his grief and before he reached the end, he was choking with tears.

Amoroth had found Nimrodel, and together they hoped to sail for the West but she came not to the ship where Amroth her - lover waited for her. Then Amoroth drowned before they could be together. When the wind is in the South the voice of Amroth comes up from the sea.

“I cannot sing any more”

She had been driven from Lorien by the presence of a Balrog nearby.

Oh, Sweet Eru if Legolas had been more attentive to his lessons he might have remembered this, where else but Moria would a Balrog lurk near Lothlórien? And he would have heard of it being killed. Legolas should have known it was still there. If he had paid attention to the maps, even without reading the names, he could have seen that their path brought them so close to possible danger.

Pippin was shaking with silent tears, but as Merry tried to comfort him he shrugged him off.

“You can leave me here.”

“We are all filled with grief,” Boromir said, “But we must press on.”

“No, I mean I will find my way back to Rivendell, they can then take me to the Shire. To the prison.”

Pippin drew himself up as they gaped.

“Why do you speak of gaol?” asked Estel.

“Because I - I killed Gandalf.” His composure shattered and he was racked with sobs. Gimli held him as his back shook. Pippin spoke into Gimli’s shoulder. “If I had not made all that noise.” He was beyond words now, and all the hobbits gathered close to hold him as he wept.

“Not your fault.” Different voices repeated the refrain. Handkerchiefs in various states were offered.

Finally the tears subsided.

Gimli’s voice was gruff. “As we approached the way out, the creatures would have spied us. Even if you had been silent, we may have approached the same foes. And think on this; perhaps only in the chamber would we have had a chance to slay the troll. In the open, with a host around us - we may not have survived. Any of us.”

Estel was reassuring as he spoke. “We knew there would be danger when we came on this journey. Gandalf knew it. I am certain he knew of the legends that a - that Moria was dangerous.” Estel glanced at Legolas as he continued. “Take heart Pippin. You fought with courage, he would be proud of you.”

They were still not safe and they decided it would be safer to sleep in the trees. Legolas did not know how Gimli was going to get up, and he had a stubborn set to his mouth. Perhaps he could coax a bough to bend down enough for Gimli to climb.

“I’m staying down here. I will keep watch, I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox,” said Gimli. Legolas could hear it in his voice. He was afraid.

Seeking a place away from the ground for the group to sleep, Legolas leapt up, hoping to find and persuade suitable branches.

But even as Legolas swung in the lowest branch, a voice spoke suddenly from the tree-shadows above him.

“Daro!” it said in commanding tone, ‘Stop’, and Legolas dropped back to earth in surprise and fear.

Elves surrounded the Fellowship, bows trained upon them. Legolas drew his own weapon.

Elves would not miss. They would all die here. After surviving Wargs, and Goblins, and Moria and - and a Balrog, they would be shot as trespassers.

“The Dwarf breathes so loudly we could have shot him in the dark.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas [Aylwyyn228](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylwyyn228/pseuds/Aylwyyn228/works), [Cassunjey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassunjey/pseuds/Cassunjey/works) & [de_la_cruz87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_la_cruz87/pseuds/de_la_cruz87/works)  
> \- Good people. 
> 
> And I know this is cheesy, but I think my Patronus is probably formed by thinking about the lovely comments you leave <3<3<3

Ahead of them, the footfall of the Fellowship was like rain Under the Mountain. Now that Gimli had come to himself, he realised that, yet again, he had left the others alone. Gimli had pledged his axe, yet once more, strong emotion had prevented him from keeping his word. So now he ran to fulfil his pledge; he ran to his friends.

In the early days of his apprenticeship, Dwalin had said a fault in Gimli was that he let strong emotion govern him. ‘That can be a good thing, lad - when that passion is harnessed and used well. Otherwise, it is a path to destruction.’ By the time most finished apprenticeships, they no longer felt a need for daily Weapons Forms, but Gimli found they focused his mind. They helped him to draw strength from stone. Gimli thought that he was now master of his emotions, yet twice in four days he had been frozen and useless in shock and grief. He would not allow that to happen again.

The feeling of cool relief at rejoining the group and finding them all whole was only momentary. Goblins spewed from the shadows, like flies from a days old corpse. Gimli planted his feet in stone. He drew his blade. He would fight, aye, but he would not leave his friends to be taken alive. Gandalf and Legolas - they had magic or skill to save themselves. And the Men were warriors and knew the tales of how Goblins dealt with those captured in battle. They would know how to find an end for themselves. Frodo could slip away.

When Nori had first told Gimli of a Ring that granted invisibility, at first Gimli had been angry. He thought Nori was attempting to pacify him with cradle tales, to soothe the sting of not having been allowed to join the Company. Gimli had asked skeptically how Nori could have allowed such a uniquely useful tool to his craft to slip past his grasp. After a long silence, Nori had said that thieves’ honour had prevented him from stealing it from another burglar whom he respected. ‘And it would take the fun out of it all, being invisible.’

Gimli lowered his voice and spoke into Frodo’s ear. “Remember, put on the Ring when they come at us, Frodo. Get away and we will join you when we can.”

The look Frodo gave was unfathomable.

Gimli could only hope that Frodo would heed his advice.

But the three remaining hobbits... Gimli would not let them suffer. In taking the time to do right by them, he might lose his own chance to avoid a slow and agonizing death, tortured for sport by Goblins. But he would be better able to bear it than the soft hobbit lads.

The surge and swirl of Tharkûn’s magic was holding the Goblins at bay for now. Gimli wondered how long he could keep that up. Then, a feeling of wrongness rose up from his feet through the stones.

“A Balrog,” muttered Tharkûn. “Now I understand.” He faltered and leaned heavily on his staff. “What an evil fortune! And I am already weary.”

“Ai! Ai!” wailed Legolas. “A Balrog! A Balrog is come!” His bow clattered on the stone.

Gimli stared with wide eyes. “Durin’s Bane!” he cried and covered his face.

The clatter of Legolas’ bow on the stone seemed to rouse Tharkûn, and his chanting stopped. The light of his staff failed.

Legolas was now making a sound of pain.

“Run!” came Aragorn’s voice of command, and they all obeyed. Gimli paused only to retrieve the bow.

They ran.

Gimli pressed the bow into Legolas’ hand.

He remembered those bloody long legs leaping across the gap in the stairs as if it were nothing.

Gimli remembered leaping into Legolas’ arms, secure in the knowledge that the Elf would catch him. It was funny the things that came to mind at such moments. He remembered one of his long-winded Li cousins discussing at length the technicalities of Life Debts created during wartime. The general position held that a Life Debt could not be created on a battlefield, then he had begun to read a scroll he had written on ‘What Constitutes a Battlefield.’ If they got out, he would discuss this with Sohli in Erebor. They would have some of the little cakes that were too sticky to allow him to be too long winded. It mattered not if he was indebted to Legolas twice over. He trusted Legolas not to abuse that position.

Gimli needed something to anchor himself. Silently, he began to sing a cradle song his mother had sung to him, even when he was far too old for it.

_All the dwarrowlings, cosy in the bed, one was jumping up and down, hit his head._

Gimli sang to himself as they ran.

_All the dwarrowlings,_

Gimli sang to himself as they ran. Gimli would wake soon from this evil dream.

_cosy in the bed._

Gimli made sure all the hobbits were ahead of him then crossed the bridge, with Legolas just behind him.

_One was jumping up and down_

What was Tharkûn doing? Why had he stopped?

_One fell down and hit his head_

“I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass.”

_All the little dwarrowlings_

Powerless, he watched as Durin’s Bane dragged Tharkûn down. His fingers scrabbled at the stone. Then he plunged into the darkness and flame.

Oh Mahal! Sweet Durin, no,

This could not be real. Surely it was an evil dream?

Gimli would wake soon.

Deep and wide was the chasm which Durin’s Bridge spanned. And as deep and black was the yawning grief which now threatened to swallow him. Dream though it was, he knew that if he did not move, Legolas would stay beside him and also be killed by the arrows raining down on them.

Dream though it was, Gimli could not bear that thought.

Meddling, inconsiderate wizard. What had he bloody gone and done that for? Gimli hated this dream.

As the sunlight hit his face, Gimli knew this to be no dream.

He should probably be embarrassed. He had not cried this hard for eighty years. He was supposed to be a Dwarrow warrior. Strong. In control. But his heart had shattered like crystal smashed on the ground, and he did not think it could ever be mended.

Boromir held Gimli as he tried to return. He needed to rain vengeance. He wanted to fight. To fight the way he should have all the times he had frozen. He needed to avenge Tharkûn. To avenge his kin. Gimli needed to give those who had violated Moria their due. He was of the line of Durin. Perhaps it was Gimli’s destiny to battle Durin’s Bane. And when Tharkûn subdued the creature, if he lived, Gimli would need to find him. Find where he had fallen. If - if there was no aid to be rendered, he would honour his bones.

He could not free himself without hurting the Man. Gimli felt uncoordinated and as if his limbs had lost all their strength. Boromir kept holding him, even when the fight had left his body.

“He fell.”

“Yes,” Boromir whispered. “He did.”

“Let me go, Boromir. I must do this. ‘Twas my fault.” Gimli’s tears choked him, but Boromir had heard and understood.

“Gimli, if you are at fault, then so am I. I should have refused any path but the pass of Rohan, as I knew in my deepest being that was the path we needed to take.”

Gimli caught his breath as Boromir spoke on. “If this loss is your fault, then I too am at fault. We shall return to the mine together.”

And those words came through as no others would have.

Boromir kept hold of him, but Gimli’s struggle was now only perfunctory. They both knew that to leave the hobbits in these Orc-infested lands with only Legolas and Aragorn to protect them would lead to only more deaths.

Gently, Boromir released him. His hand remained on Gimli’s shoulder.

Gimli felt weak as a kitten, and sank to his haunches. The weight of their situation pressed down.

“Boromir, I am too ashamed to go to the others. If I had added my axe to the fray at the gates of Moria, we may have overcome the creature in the water. Our path may not have been blocked. We would not have been trapped. We nine, all nine, could have made for the pass of Rohan, safe on the way to Gondor.”

Boromir paused and swallowed. Then he knelt and faced Gimli, looking into his eyes. “Gimli. I know you are not made of stone. You could not fail to have been moved by the fate of your kin. There is not a Warrior in Middle Earth trained for such a sight. Know this; I am with you. We shall survive this mighty loss.”

Gimli looked over at Legoas. His face reminded him of the way the hobbits had looked, freezing on Caradhras. It felt as if with a single gust of wind, Legolas would no longer be with them.

Gimli’s own grief felt too much to bear, tempered as it was with guilt. And he could not stop weeping. Gimli did not like to ‘perform’ grief as some did. To him it was something private. He had nothing against those who hired mourners, and made a great show of their grief - it was a mark of respect - he understood that. But he preferred to shed his tears in private. Legolas seeing his tears in Hollin was a mark of how overwhelmed he had been at the upending of his assumptions. But in Moria, Gimli’s cries of anguish had been rent from him with no consideration of his preferences. And now, he could not stop the tears.

In Moria he knew his pain had spread to the whole group. What comfort could they have offered? ‘Sorry your training was for naught, sorry your kin lie unburied and dishonoured’?

And what could they say to him now. ‘Sorry your blindness led Gandalf to his death’?

Even if there had been time, it would have been further dishonour to allow outsiders to observe the secret Dwarrow entombment rites. And there had not been time.

Gimli thought of King Thror’s tomb in Erebor which lay empty. Only Tharkûn knew the manner of his death and burial, and he had taken that secret with him. Gimli would never speak with him again.

Tharkûn had always been there. Even Glóin said he had known him as a pebble. Tharkûn had been a teacher, mentor, guide to every one of the Fellowship’s members since before they were of age. He had seen and been a part of their childhoods, every last one of them, now Gimli had led him to his death. Tharkûn had said to the creature, ‘Go back to the abyss! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master!’ Is that nothingness where Tharkûn now was?

Boromir let him go. Gimli stood apart and, bracing himself on a rock, he openly wept once more.

Gimli wished he could take a sedative tea. He could feel himself begin to tremble. They were meant to have found respite here, he was meant to have impressed his new friends, gained the admiration of the Elf with Moria’s displays of hospitality and magnificence. They were meant to have found rest here, now Gimli had killed Tharkûn.

“Get them up.”

Aragorn’s voice of command had led them through the darkness and now continued to guide and encourage. Boromir and he had somehow called a truce between them, and the Man obeyed without rancour.

Boromir helped Gimli to rise. They would have to set a quick pace and find shelter before nightfall. Aragorn proposed an Elvish place nearby and Gimli started at the name. Surely Aragorn could not consider that place suitable. But Gimli was not in a position to argue. So long as his friends were safe, he would put aside his feelings. He would put aside such cradle tales as he had heard about those woods.

Three white peaks were shining: Celebdil, Fanuidhol and Caradhras. In the distance they stood, the snow glinting and the wind still. Caradhras looked like a white opal on display. So peaceful. Would that they had come that way.

As they left Moria, Aragorn called out. “Farewell, Gandalf!” he cried. In a low voice he spoke now, saying, “Did I not say to you: if you pass the doors of Moria, beware? Alas that I spoke true! What hope have we without you?”

Even Aragorn’s hope now wavered.

Gimli thought of how many times Thorin’s Company had been saved by Tharkûn. They had been thirteen fighting fit Dwarves, and even then, it was Tharkûn who had ensured their survival.

Gimli looked around at the group.

Without the Wizard, the Fellowship was now well and truly fucked.

Gimli would now need to trust the luck of his helm. Gimli straightened it. His father had worn it on his own journey across Middle Earth, and on the way from Erebor to Rivendell, after they had set up camp on the first night, Glóin sat beside Gimli.

After finishing a pipe, Glóin took off his helm and gave it to Gimli saying, ‘Yer head’s hard enough that ye hardly have need of it, son. But it has seen me safe through my travels, and as Mahal wills, it will do the same for you.’ He had then spent the next few minutes grumbling about the workmanship of Gimli’s helm, which he had taken in exchange. ‘The armourers of today have far less patience than those of generations past. These lazy moles would use an amalgam of soldering metals, rather than taking the time to file down a plate for a perfect fit.’

As they ran, Gimli tried to keep his mind from the grief eating at him from inside.

He cast his thoughts to his father. Glóin’s craft as a jeweller was an impractical choice among an impoverished, refugee population. But one knew that the call to a craft was from Mahal, and not to be scorned, regardless of what it was. Even though he was the staunchest defender of his wife’s calling to glass, Glóin still felt the pull of the ‘foundational’ crafts. Glóin had made sure Gimli knew the fundamentals of metalsmithing. And Glóin had always had such an admiration for that most Dwarven of crafts, that of a warrior. Gimli did not feel any particular pull to any craft, so did not regret the look of pure joy on Glóin’s face when he said he wished to take up an apprenticeship as a Warrior.

Though Gimli did not talk about it, and think about it day and night in the way of the Craft Wed, he knew that if he did as instructed and worked diligently he would see success. And he had.

Gimli had enjoyed the travel his work brought, protecting trade caravans and meeting people from far away lands. He kept up his daily practice, and often, when he braided, he would recite to himself his Warrior’s pledge. But truth be told, the practical part of being a Warrior had not come up often. Most of the time, seeing that a party of armed Dwarves defended a caravan caused thieves to choose a softer target. And when they had encountered bands of Orcs, Gimli had always been with others. The most he had ever slain at one time was six, and those Orcs were in daylight and at a disadvantage, after having been discovered hiding in a cave.

Gimli had never fought the way he had today. There were still bits of gore in his beard, and when they paused by water, he washed his face, hands and beard as well as he could. The gloves, soaked in the black blood, would never be the same again.

Gimli’s hands were still shaking. He had never fought as he had today.

The smell of disembowelment. Perhaps only when he was in The Halls of Waiting, drinking Mahal’s own spiced mead, maybe then he would forget that smell.

He knew he had done no wrong in taking the lives of those who threatened the Fellowship but he took no pleasure in it, and as they passed the Mirrormere, he was filled with a powerful pull. He felt that the sight of those waters would cleanse something in him.

He knew Frodo knew of this from Bilbo and understood its significance and hoped that it would take his mind off the horrors of this day.

The sight of it might strengthen Frodo, as it strengthened him

And also - it almost felt as if Gimli viewed that wondrous sight alone, it would be hard to cast it as anything other than a dream.

He recited to himself; ‘O Kheled-zâram fair and wonderful. Ten stars in the constellation ‘Durin’s crown’ till he wakes.’

In one of Bilbo’s letters, he had once written how he wished he could have beheld the fabled beauty of the Mirrormere. So Gimli would show Frodo, so that he could recount it to Bilbo, once all this was over. In this life or the next.

Would that he could have shown Legolas. He and Legolas had shared so much of themselves since Caradhras, but he knew now that whenever the Elf looked at Gimli, he would see the architect of Tharkûn’s death. And Gimli could not face that reproach. Not in those eyes.

He had seen Durin’s stone, which stood by Mirrormere. All his life, he had been told that it was of surpassing beauty, but the sight of it did nothing to loosen the vice around his heart, and all Gimli could do was continue to stumble forward.

As they walked away from the pool, Frodo spoke, leaning slightly on Sam’s arm for support as he walked. “I did not want to come.” At Gimli’s flinch he spoke again. “I do not mean coming to Mo- Khazad-dûm. I mean I wanted to stay in Rivendell and not come at all.” Frodo ran his bloodstained hands through his hair.

“I told this to Gandalf. I thought he would be sympathetic. But all he said is that all we can do is to ‘decide what to do with the time that is given us.’ All we can do is look forward, Gimli.”

Gimli squeezed the small hand in his. Gimli nodded as he blinked away tears.

Gimli could not control the thoughts flitting through his mind. His thoughts had turned again to the tiny mine ponies he had wanted to surprise the hobbits with. Their backs were not strong enough to bear the weight of a Dwarf but they could pull a trolley and were useful in the mines. He had been sure Balin would have spared them four, and together with Bill, the ponies would have eased the hobbits’ tired feet. But that was a different future. The pony dung he had seen in Moria was long dried. They had died long ago, as had the Settlers. And now Tharkûn. This grim reality was his to survive, and it would not help to wallow in such daydreams. Sweet as they were, the poison of such longing would eat at his bones.

They ran until the little hobbits could run no further. Aragorn tended to Frodo’s wounds. At one point, one of the rings in the corslet had been driven into the lad’s flesh. Aragorn bathed the hurts with water in which athelas was steeped and the pungent fragrance filled the dell. The steaming water refreshed and strengthened them all. The smell of Aragorn’s concoction brought strength once again to Gimli’s bones.

With reverence, Gimli examined the corslet, and even upon close inspection, he did not fully understand the mastery which allowed it to become firm when a blow reached it, protecting the wearer.

The sight of the fine Mithril of Frodo’s corslet twisted at Gimli. Here was all his people’s skill made manifest in fine workmanship and diligence in mining such a quantity of that most elusive of substances. Here was evidence of Thorin’s open heart.

But these things remained hidden from most of Middle Earth. Men alive now believed Dwarves to be the wandering vagrants of their grandsires’ tales of boyhood. This corslet had been made with passion and joy, and sang with the skill of its maker. And of Thorin’s love for an outsider.

They all fell silent as Gimli began to undo his armour.

Panic rose inside Gimli as he took out the last of his cram, which his mother had insisted that he pack in the pockets of his under-armour vest. His worry was not for disrobing in the open, their eyes were all averted and he was not undressing fully. The hobbits were all so hollow cheeked now with dark rings beneath their eyes and he was ashamed he had failed to take better care of them.

When Pippin’s tears came they were no surprise to Gimli, only their cause. Regardless of whether or not he was of age, today had been the end of Pippin’s childhood. As Pippin spoke of prison, Gimli remembered Bilbo’s letters of the prison in Michael Delving. It had only one cell, regularly occupied by one they called ‘Squiffy’ Holedeepson. In recompense for his frequent ‘stays’ - usually for breaking something, or fighting in his cups - Squiffy took to tending the prison’s garden. He would then eat its produce during his regular ‘visits’ as Bilbo euphemistically called them.

Gimli remembered Tharkûn’s words. ‘No one would blame you.’ Could he have known what was to come?

As they approached the edge of the woods, a feeling of calm washed over him. He felt the sting of his hurts, both of body and of mind, fall away. This was not natural. Perhaps the fables were true and an evil Elf Witch really did live here.

It was dark, and Legolas’ song of Balrogs and drowned lovers had only depressed him. And he was not going to sleep in a bloody tree. He was small compared to Legolas and the Men, aye, but he was no squirrel to be wandering among the branches. He would stand guard at the base of the tree if others wished to climb. He would keep a full night-watch on his feet.

When the Elves appeared, by magic suddenly all around them, the sneering drawl of their leader embodied everything he had thought he knew about Elves; supercilious, rude, sneering.

“The Dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot them in the dark.”

A death threat. Gimli had no need for threats. If it was death they sought they would surely find it, but perhaps not as they had expected or hoped.

Their faces - despite his feelings, Gimli could admit they were beautiful. But they were too perfect, it felt like showing-off somehow. There was something pretentious about it. Not a hair out of place.

When Legolas spoke of the folk of Mirkwood - the Elves sometimes sounded like the mischievous creatures of Mannish tales, but sometimes just like - ordinary people. Not the devious, twisted creatures he had grown up hearing of. But these tree-shaggers before him. Aye, they were nasty pieces of work, one and all. He could tell.

They greeted Legolas as ‘Thranduilion’. Legolas never mentioned his father when they talked. Perhaps they were not close. Gimli did not feel it was his place to pry.

He knew not what Legolas and Aragorn were saying to them, but Gimli looked at the one who seemed to lead them, then spat on the ground. Just to make sure his feelings were clear.

They jabbered away in their own tongue. “Speak words we can all understand.” Gimli barked, only to be ignored.

Mahal, these Elves were beautiful. The one speaking to Legolas was handsome in a way a sculpture was handsome, all those sharp elven angles and lines that typified their features were present in this one. And if they all normally looked mostly ambiguous, this one was most definitely seeded.

Gimli would not go so far as to speak Khuzdul before them, even if it was to swear at them, but the fact he had considered it was testament to how close he was to his breaking point.

They led the Fellowship a short distance, and with an arrow pointed at them, they were forced up a ridiculous ladder made of ropes and onto a flimsy platform. These Elves meant to kill him by having him roll over and fall to the ground perhaps, so Gimli kept well away from the edge.

Gimli was going to make them pay for the disrespect he had been shown. He only needed to consider how.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas [Aylwyyn228](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylwyyn228/pseuds/Aylwyyn228/works), [Cassunjey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassunjey/pseuds/Cassunjey/works) & [de_la_cruz87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_la_cruz87/pseuds/de_la_cruz87/works),  
> without whom this story would be something different, something worse. Any mistakes you find are from me poking around after they give it back. And thank you to all the readers, especially in the comments. You have helped me through an... interesting year. This is a short chapter but I hope you like it ;-)
> 
> Let me know.

Of all the places he had anticipated the quest taking him, ‘up a tree’ had not been in the forefront of Gimli’s mind. On a notable occasion the Company had fled to the sanctuary of trees, so he had known it was within the realms of possibility. But Gimli had never actually been up a tree before.

There was a nonsense, ridiculous, rope-ladder he was expected to climb, and he did not need to understand the silly-sounding language to know he was being mocked by the gathered Elves as he gingerly made his way up.

These were not like the floating, anodyne Rivendell Elves. These seemed dangerous. And this place was not like Rivendell. There was the familiar sense of calm, but here it felt somehow more forceful. Gimli would have suspected his food or drink of being drugged, but he had drunk only of the water of the stream and eaten only the rabbit Legolas had caught.

The Elves had offered them fruit, and the hobbits had fallen upon it. But hungry as he was, Gimli did not trust these Elves. He would not be surprised if they used poison on him. A coward’s weapon.

These Elves had wanted to send them all away, but Aragorn had argued with them, persuaded them in that way of his. After further whispered discussion with Aragorn, the Elves took the hobbits to a different platform, keeping the Ringbearer with them. Gimli liked it not.

Prior to that, there had been a private discussion between Frodo, Legolas and their leader. They had turned to look at him several times, and it was clear that he was the topic of discussion. Gimli was not overly concerned. He understood that there would be some resistance at taking into their realm a strange Dwarf who had appeared without warning. In Rivendell, Lord Elrond had received notice by raven and they had had weeks to prepare themselves and become accustomed to the notion that Dwarves would soon descend upon them. But Legolas would vouch for him.

Chagrined, Gimli acknowledged to himself that he had been less than diplomatic today, and had made it more difficult for them to vouch for him. But it had not been without provocation.

Climbing the rope ladder, Gimli knew he was imagining it, but he had the distinct sense that the tree did not like his axe. He remained with only one axe now. The throwing axes, gifts from Fili and Kili, were yet another addition to the list of things he had lost to the mines.

Finally, Legolas rejoined them, He danced up the ladder, hardly needing it, then pulled it up behind him. Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas and himself were on this bloody tree platform thing together. True, they were safe from Orcs up here, but that did not mean Gimli needed to like it.

The platform was built around the tree, so they arranged themselves with one on each of the four sides. Gimli stood and pressed himself close to the tree, as far from the edge as he could manage. Gimli would not give the Elves the joy of his breaking his neck in a fall. There was a flimsy railing in place, but it seemed more decorative than serving any function of safety.

Gimli lay down on the platform, and it groaned under his weight; no doubt it was shoddily constructed. He shifted to try and find a comfortable position in his armour, but intended to stay awake. Gimli was reminded of the early days of the Fellowship and of being suspicious of Legolas and watching through the night. He had been both fearing and hoping to confirm his suspicions about Legolas’ ‘evil nature’. Now, he would, and in fact _had_ now placed his life in Legolas’ hands many times. He had full trust in him. Even Gloin would not be able to argue with the facts about that.

It was these other Elves Gimli needed to keep an eye on.

As Gimli lay down, his helm dug into his neck, but he would not rest unprotected among these treacherous creatures.

Grief and exhaustion had taken their toll, and Gimli realised he had drifted off. He awoke to the sound of a commotion. "Yrch." Gimli knew that word. A signal had been raised indicating Orcs in the vicinity, and some of the party of Elves left to deal with them.

“Go back to sleep, Gimli,” Legolas’ gentle voice instructed, and Gimli fell back into rest.

Some time later, Gimli blinked awake to the clammy sweat of a nightmare, and to find Legolas laying beside him. His fingers were under Gimli’s helm, soothing his brow.

Legolas stilled and looked at him, his face worried.

Gimli needed to pause to try and understand what was happening.

He blinked himself awake. He had had a bad dream. No, that was real, but here among the branches, he had also dreamt of it. Had he called out in his sleep?

Now Legolas was here to offer comfort?

With an effort, Gimli willed away the heat, and tried to think.

Legolas drew back his hand from his brow and now those lithe fingers pressed against his gloved hand.

“Your sleep - it was disturbed.” Legolas’ breathing was fast, but Gimli could not smell arousal, only the gore still staining their clothing.

This - this was not uncommon, and a Warrior’s comfort was not unknown to him. But Gimli needed to think.

Gimli removed his gloves, and set them aside. All the while, Legolas was still pressed against him, and had now raised himself up on one elbow.

The embrace of another warm, living body was a well-known remedy after loss. To anchor oneself in the land of the living, and to have a reminder that one had not yet been called away to the Halls.

But - was that what Legolas wanted? Gimli did not want to use the Elf merely as a tool. And the more he thought about it, the less he himself wished to serve merely as balm, to then be discarded when the need was met. This was no longer Dale, and a stranger offering pleasure. This was his friend. Aye, he could own it. And they still needed to travel onwards together. It was said to be unwise to change the balance of one’s blade on the eve of battle.'1'

But, oh Mahal, Legolas had felt so good in Gimli’s arms. Gimli’s hand moved to rest on Legolas’ waist.

Legolas smiled. Oh that smile! Beneath the breastplate, Gimli’s chest was heaving as if he had been running.

Maybe he would just hold him, thus. Legolas had said nothing and Gimli would not presume.

Legolas removed Gimli’s helm and pressed their foreheads together, keeping his eyes closed.

Then, in the dark, Legolas’ drew back and his head tilted in enquiry. And that shine of his was enough for Gimli to see the same question in Legolas’ eyes.

Something dark in Legolas’ eyes made Gimli’s breath hitch.

Legolas’ hand moved towards Gimli’s beard, hesitated, then drew back. Gimli caught the hand then placed it on his beard.

Legolas’ sigh caressed Gimli’s cheek, and Gimli felt the hairs on his arms stand up.

Legolas reached back to untie his hair then ran a hand through the braid. Legolas’ hair fell about them in a dark curtain, creating a world with only the two of them. Nestled in his arms, this was a world for two.

Maybe a kiss - just one -

Gimli reached up and ran his hand through Legolas’ hair. His heart was now racing.

“Ai, Gimli,” breathed Legolas. He said something in that language of his. Not the birdlike one. The one which sounded rich, and warm and molten. Now in Westron he spoke. “I wanted this when I saw you in Rivendell. Then you were so angry and I did not understand.” Legolas clung to Gimli, and he could feel the puffs of air against his cheek, ruffling his beard.

Gimli gently stroked his hair again, earning another sigh. They had said they would speak of apologies outside of Moria, but he did not want this to be an act of penance. However, Gimli did wish to take this tenderness and soothe away the weeks of harshness. He wanted his hand to smooth away the hurt that lay between them. To ease the pain of the loss they had suffered.

Gimi wanted to build a bridge with touch and draw them together that they could walk side-by-side once more. He wanted to take the harmony and synchronicity born of fighting together and turn it into a dance of bodies of a different kind.

But he needed to understand what this was to Legolas.

Slow waves of fire were already creeping over him. Gimli needed them to talk before he was no longer able to.

His long fingers were now lazily tracing the shell of Gimli’s ear, and his smile seemed filled with amusement.

Gimli returned the gesture, tracing up the point of Legolas’ ear. Legolas made a strangled noise and shuddered.

Mahal. Gimli’s hammer was now awake, uncomfortable in this armour.

Legolas propped himself back up on his elbow, his breathing now ragged.

Legolas’ eyes fluttered shut, and he was now saying something again in that mysterious language. His hand was on the sensitive skin of Gimli’s neck, and he drew a low groan from deep in Gimli’s chest. His breath was now coming in tiny puffs.

Gimli pushed a knee between Legolas’ thighs, and the welcome hardness he met sent a pulse of heat to his core. Legolas’ gasp only caused the heat to increase.

Legolas licked his lips, then bowed his head towards -

“I am awake.” Aragorn’s whisper rang out in the dark.

Legolas froze, then sighed. Aragorn shifted, causing the platform to creak.

Legolas closed his eyes. He rested his forehead against Gimli’s for a beat then pulled back. Legolas moved to sit up, and Gimli felt a sense of loss as his hand slid away from Legolas’ waist.

With a flick of the wrist, Legolas knotted his hair on the top of his head.

None of them spoke.

Gimli sighed as Legolas swung his feet over the edge of the platform and sat upright, pressed against Gimli, as Gimli was pressed against the tree. Legolas rested his chin on the railing, then smiled when Gimli captured his hand.

Gimli had not thought he could sleep again, but exhaustion claimed its toll, and the light of dawn was the next thing he saw. Legolas’ presence had been comforting, and Gimli’s sleep was untroubled.

Awkwardly, they climbed down the rope ladder. Legolas’ braids were back to normal, he noted. Gimli was relieved to see the hobbits all looked well and rested and were unharmed. Gimli could not quite meet Aragorn’s eye, and his morning greeting was painfully awkward.

The Elves had set out on plates lightly roasted fish and berries, and a sweet liquid to drink. When Aragorn saw Gimli was not eating, he seemed to understand at once. Aragorn tried to exchange their plates, but Gimli would not take that risk, instead eating half of Aragorn’s fish and berries and making a point to throw the food in his own plate on the ground, and crush it underfoot. He had not been this hungry since the days of Ered Luin but he would not eat this, and he drank only from his own flask.

They had already issued him with one death threat, and he would be a fool not to take it seriously.

They began a march as the sun climbed in the sky, and when they approached the river once again, they were permitted to wash their hands and faces. As they did so, the Elves strung a rope across the river, and Legolas danced across, as sure-footed as if he were walking down the main road in Dale. Surely they were not expected to follow suit? The Elves strung across two more ropes as handholds. Gimli would have refused to cross, but the hobbits had already gone over.

Once he reached the other side he heard a hissed argument, then a dark-haired Elf said, “The Dwarf - blindfold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - “It was said to be unwise to change the balance of one’s blade on the eve of battle” - From an amazing fic I read years ago, sorry, can't remember which one. It was a short one about how Gimli was the only one allowed to touch Legolas' blade...
> 
> Edit: Thanks to Roselightfairy for pointing me in the right direction. The story where no one else has touched Legolas' blade is by Adina and is called 'No Other Hand.' (It's great, read it!) BUT I got muddled and the line about 'balance of the blade' is not from that story. Icedragonair correctly identified the context of the line, but we are both still a bit vague about which story it came from.
> 
> Edit 2: thanks again to Roselightfairy. The line about the balance of the blade is by lordnelson100 in 'Travelling Bodies' (a gorgeous fic).


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